Those who help are those most hurt
by Account deleted 12
Summary: Being new to Gotham, "Lily" discovers why coming to the aid of some people, isn't always for the best... DISCONTINUED.
1. Those who help are those most hurt

**Those who help are those most hurt.**

Looking back now I'm not sure that what I did was the greatest idea of my life. That being said neither was taking me and my haphazard set of qualifications to America, to -arguably- the most corrupt and downright dangerous city in the North.

Like I said, not the best idea.

So, back to the main event, I was walking down a street unlike any other I had previously encountered (turns out I was about halfway into the Narrows) when I heard an awful scream from a near-by alley…

* * *

Jumping at the sudden unearthly howl, my eyes give the dark street a quick glance, my quiet breathing a mist in front of me. Past it I watch in mild disgust as a couple pass by the apparent source of the scream without a glance, intent on reaching their destination and high from their nightly delights of alcohol and sex.

Shuddering as a slight breeze picks up, I feel for my trusty mobile as I take jerky, hesitant steps towards the back alley and its noises of laughing men.

The screams had stopped.

Upon this my jaded senses spring to life, whipping out the phone and dialling the '911' for help. All the while my footsteps grow louder and more frequent as I begin to run –blindly- into the jaw of the alleyway.

_He'__s dead, isn't he? Sounded like a man. Please don't be dead! Will they have knives? Guns? Don't think! At least I know some self defence… Damnit! They'll try to kill me; wait 'til they leave… that might work…_

The couple hurry now as the laughs grow louder, a sickly scraping noise, like a body being dragged, growing louder with them.

_The attackers are bringing him into the street!_

I immediately reduce my speed to a creeping walk, slinking back into one of the many shadows of the grimy district, in this case, a narrow gap between two blocks of flats.

From my hiding place I can't help but stare at the unfortunate victim as he's tossed from one slab of muscle to another in some sort of bully circle on steroids. The darkness may make the visibility low; but squinting slightly I can somewhat make out the victim's face through my glasses. Lanky; yet lithe, breakable; yet still in one piece, helpless; yet… what's that? A gun? A gun literally up his sleeve?

The several men pushing about the smaller –dark haired- man about suddenly begin to throw clumsy punches –obviously drunk- at their victim, bored with simply pushing him about.

_I need to do something. __**Now.**_

Claiming my body my own from a terrible mind-numbing terror which had previously chained me to the shadows of the decaying flats, I take a hesitant step.

The streetlight was blinding until their gazes found me, shivering in a scarf so long both ends of it were almost trailing in the slushy snow which immersed the streets at this time of year.

For a moment there was silence. The men even stopped laughing, the dark haired man made no noise, odd seeing as blood appears to be running a bit too freely from numerous places on his scrawny frame.

Making an effort to keep my body language as low profile and as unaggressive as possible, I eventually find the will within myself to speak.

"S-stop." _Damn it! Damn it! Stuttering will only make it obvious that I'm frightened! Need to put them on the defensive…_ "O-or I'll call the cops." Then for good measure. "Beat it and leave this guy alone! I… I don't know who any of you are or why your doi-!"

"Ah!" One of the broader men took a few steps towards me, his knowing grin, shaking of the head and his open attitude put me off the fact that a moment ago he and his goons were beating another human (to death?) for a moment; but not for long he didn't. _Although he appears to know something I don't… not hard seeing as I've only been in America –never mind Gotham- for a barely a week!_

"You're new here, am I right?" He continues, a few of his 'buddies' sniggering loudly. "You see, Dr. Crane here," the human bulldozer jesters to the wiry man fiddling with something on his suit jacket sleeve, a cufflink perhaps? "Is, uh, how shall we put it…? Insane? A madman? You see darlin', Crane here tried to poison the whole of Gotham City, was locked away in Arkham –a loony bin for freaks- and just keeps escaping… So, we, as the good men of Gotham should do, beat him to a pulp when we see him out as a warning… no way are we gonna tell the goddamn cops about it, so don't go calling 'em if you know what's good for you!"

The last part of the thug's little speech was snarled out through gaps where his teeth should have been, giving quite an unpleasant effect. I shiver again, this time with the winter weather at the back of my mind.

"But," feeling the cogs of my brain spinning wildly with such an immoral issue, my tongue feel too clumsy to form what I want to say; but something has got to be said, "are you going to go down to Dr. Crane's level? By beating him – or anyone- like this, how can you say what any of you are doing is moral, is the 'right thing to do'? Please," I let my legs carry me forward, "just-"

"Stop."

The new voice seems almost amused with the situation, his situation, the voice laced with a cool-headed confidence, a doctor's voice, the voice of the infamous Dr. Crane.

In a blur Crane sweeps a burlap sack with eyeholes cut out of it, a crude mask of some sort, from his breast pocket, plunging it over his short boyish curls in an instant. In the mere heartbeats which follow, a terrifying, rasping growl orders,

"Get away from here girl!"

Riddled with dread I comply just as the sound of gas escaping a pressurised container hisses from the circle of men.

Running, I risk a look at what and where the gas came from (and for open flames), when it begins.

The screeching, squealing, shrieking of scared, scratch that, petrified men, who –moments ago- were 'at the top of their game', now lay sobbing on the cold, dead ground.

I can't remember stopping, but the laughter of the man I had been previously trying so desperately to help, has the blood frozen in my veins. His laugh, so unlike the (_dare I say it?_) happy, glad, laughter of the thugs, feels like ice against my ears, the trailing of knifes down my spine, the whisper of lies in my mind that everything will be okay…

Not this time. Not with him.

Eventually our eyes meet. Although it is intentional. Crane could have choreographed it, he turns to face me with a smile in his eyes, a dead smile, it is all I am able to see for that mask and the cloud of… gas. Ice watching, waiting for the earth the give-in, to run, to hide, to beg… Normally I would shake my head to clear it of such frightening and vivid thoughts, but right now is the first time where I am truly frozen in fear.

_If Crane can make a group of burly thugs scream, what can he do to me? _

White spots obscure my vision as the crazed masked man makes his way smoothly towards me, his every movement considered as predatory.

Something gentle; albeit frigid and wet caresses the side of my face. Blinking dumbly I realise that the white spots in my vision are in fact snowflakes.

_How out of place. Snow being a symbol of purity, in a place like this… _

The wailing of the group of intoxicated men fades with each step Dr. Crane takes until the world narrows itself down to the lanky man in the burlap mask and me.

Crane may have left a seemingly generous distance between us; yet I still could not prevent the feelings of discomfort from being within an arm's reach of the strange 'Doctor', especially since his eyes did not seem to be looking at anything in particular, almost as if he were hallucinating…

Silence.

"D-Dr. Crane…?"

More silence, until a soft dripping sound rings out into the pale abyss surrounding us both: Crane's blood dripping from his wounds into the fresh snow. Red staining the white, from here there was no turning back.

I sigh, uncharacteristically frustrated with his silence, hoping foolishly that he would end whatever he had started quickly, so that I may return 'home' to my heavy stone apartment where no one can hear each other's music thanks to the thick walls, where people can feel safe and secure… which is great seeing as I'm not planning on leaving my home anytime soon…

"Crane," feeling pleased that I had managed to speak relatively normally to the nightmarish man, I swiftly realise that –if Crane really is hallucinating- there would be a good chance that he could not see nor even hear me.

The light bulb went off as they say, and so objective: Escape! is born.

Without taking my eyes off his blank stare, I will my body to move.

Nothing.

Glaring in a panic at my sneaker clad feet I try again.

Luckily this time my body seems to jump-start itself into action; yet this tiny twitching of muscles on my part gave Crane something real to focus upon and before I know it his fingers dance along the damp paths left by the snow on my skin down my face, stealing the warmth.

"You're so warm..." He coos in what could be described as an affectionate tone; his eyes give a different story, of deviousness and a desire to harm.

I flinch from this mocking touch, taking care to bat away his hands from underneath as I do so; I'm not used to being touched.

"Please stop it! Y-you're bleeding… I, I can-"

"Help? You want to help me?" Crane pulls off his mask using a strange amount of effort for such a seemingly simple task, pulling a rather charming; most likely fake smile. "Is this what you want!"

I shake my head._ That wasn't exactly a question was it? His tone was defiantly accusatory…_

"I just like to help is a-all."

His eyes narrow into little more than blade-like slits of winter itself, I shiver unintentionally from the malice of it.

"Like you 'helped' back there?" Now he sounds amused, a shadow of doubt flickers across my mind (and probably my expression judging by the widening of Crane's grin) as to the sanity of the man.

"I was frightened for a while that was all!" I burst out, feeling the need to explain my lack of action, "After all, there were a lot of larger guys there and not everyone has a spray can of… of…" I racked my memory of American knowledge which I'd previously picked up from a few friendly people on the long flight over, in hope of a clue as to what the strange gas could be.

Dr. Crane -retaining his psychotic smirk- appears to be enjoying my failure in this subject at least…

"…oh! Was that 'mace'? No wonder that's banned in the UK if that happens to the unfortunate souls who get sprayed by it! Um… they will be okay won't they? When they wake up I mean?"

A seemingly fleshless hand slaps itself onto my shoulder, Crane bending double before me, begins to laugh madly- at what I'd just said no doubt. _Hey! You can't be good at everything can you?_

"Oh my, you really must be new! Do you really think that they would sell this," A shake of a –hopefully empty- can of the gas, "in the shops?"

I shook my head again, though adding,

"But here they sell guns to people so freely, so it wouldn't surprise me that much really."

Once more Crane chuckles, straightening up only to gaze down at me with his soul piercing eyes, finding this rather unfair I quickly wrench my eyes away from his to check how the gang are doing. At the sight of their stony colouration and stillness I freeze, terrified. The winter wind moans.

I notice Crane moving; although the movement is so flowing I could have discounted the apparent movement entirely as an effect of my over-imaginative mind.

Yet when a low growl of a man's voice came from right next to my ear, with breath scarcely able to be called 'warm', I knew Crane had in fact moved. He was standing behind me.

My own breath is now coming in short, barely audible gasps from the overall shock of the situation finally sinking in…

"Now then," Crane begins, genuine glee lacing his words, "let's find out what you fear…"

In a desperate attempt to flee this bizarre, this... frightening Crane, I make a sudden movement- in preparation to run.

Fingers take a firm grip in my long, bark brown hair, wrapping his hands in it, Crane smiles- his hands are already warmer.

"Scared?"

Unable to answer, I can barely breathe as a cloud of gas engulfs us both.

The world becomes a nightmare.


	2. A whole new world

**Chapter two: A whole new world.**

_What the hell is that? There's something moving, something moving… what is it? Crane. It's Crane. __**Just**__ Crane… What's he going to do? The others are dead. __**Dead!**__ Don't move don't move…_

The ground may be covered in snow; but it's defiantly safer lying here than being **there**. Somewhere in the distance the wind chuckles as I sob.

Suddenly I find myself back **there** with only the sounds of chains and dragging footsteps for company.

* * *

The girl's reaction to his toxin is mesmerising, especially in the snow, but what is she mumbling about? Feeling curious, Scarecrow crouches down next to the brunette, listening to her ramblings through gasping cries of fear.

**Fear.** The doctor shivers, a pleasant excitement running through his veins as he stares at the trembling creature beside him (Johnny grumbles at this, something whiney about her _'still being_ _human'_ or something…), clutching at her loose, long hair like he had done so earlier. _**What do you fear…?**_ The masked man leans closer to his subject, hungry for the few precious words she appears to be repeating.

"Let me ou-out! **Out!** I'm sca-scared! Just let m-me go! L-l-let me leave! Plea-pl-please! Oh… no… let me go… let me out… let me… no…!" Trembling, the poor thing just didn't appear to notice anything except for her own internal fears.

_**We can soon change that…**_ Scarecrow prises the young woman's smaller hands from her knotting hair with little difficulty and pulls her to her feet with himself directly behind her. _**No need to break her just yet…**_

Savouring the absolute control he had over his subject, Scarecrow could barely keep himself from whispering back responses to the crazed ramblings, just to see how far he could push the girl's mind… how long would she last? Would she scream again? How about a stress induced heart attack? His bony fingers twitch suddenly.

"What do **you** think Johnny?"

_I think you should hold off for a moment. _

"Aw… what's wrong Johns? You seem miffed about something, or should I say some**one**?" Scarecrow cackles, clearly enjoying himself.

_I'm not-!_

"Wh-who are y-you talking t-to D-D-Doctor C-Crane?" I growl at the sound of my victim's breaking voice, anger swiftly outrunning my desire for knowledge. _**But then again,**_ I muse, smirking once more; _**that what **_**you**_** do this for isn't it **_**Doctor**_** Crane? **_**I'm**_** just in it for the 'kicks'…**_ Crane –already feeling disgust for himself for so readily allowing the Scarecrow control- feels it once again when his pale eyes travel down the figure in front of him-

**Us**_**, you mean. You feel disgusted at us. **_Scarecrow chuckles softly,_** and yes- the occasional beautiful lady. **_

Biting his bottom lip to prevent himself from giggling, the Scarecrow mentally cackles as Crane's worries and revulsion fall onto deaf ears.

_**Relax, I have no intention of**__** doing any of those vile-!**_

"D-Doctor Cr-Crane? Are y-you alright?" _**The girl sounds nervous,**_ Scarecrow frowns, _**funny, I'm sure that she was perfectly **_**terrified**_** before.**_

"C-can I turn around n-now p-please? Y-y-you're still b-bleeding r-right?"

This time I burst out laughing; I can't help it! _**Worried? Worried about **_**me**_**?**_ Suddenly it isn't funny anymore and my lip curls under the burlap mask, fuming at the girl's simple minded stupidity: _**she is in more danger than she realises; yet still concerns herself with **_**my**_** well being! **_**Fool!**_** How could anyone take such a fool seriously? Must be an artist of some kind, or another sort of idiot with no real responsibilities… **_

Seizing an iron grip on her trembling shoulders, I spin her around to face me, her scarf flicking wet snow onto my suit trousers as I do so, adding only more fury to my opinion of the brunette.

"What is your name?" I roar into her pale face, the mask giving my voice a bestial tone.

"C-Ca-Ca-Ca-Ca-!"

_Too far, _Johnny murmurs- as if I didn't realise!

"What is it?" I purr, bending slightly to match her height, "Don't be worried: I **am** a Doctor… doesn't go to say you are not allowed to **fear** me though does it? Great, don't you think, seeming as we can play this way…" Obviously petrified of the combination of my mask, voice and toxin, the girl's fear threshold is seemingly exceeded.

_**Aw…**_I moan, _**I think we killed her.**_

_Don't say that- she's fainted, that's all._

I pout, kneeling in the snow next to the body and pushing strands of hair from her frowning face.

_**Oh well, I'll just have to… wait until she wakes up. What do you think, Johns? **_

No one replies. The only real sounds being the whining of the breeze and the faint breathing of the blacked-out female.

_**Johns? Hey! **_**Listen**_** when I'm talking to you! Look! **_Standing up I gesture to the soaked calves of the trouser I am wearing, _**these are **_**definitely**_** ruined now, Johns! What are you-?**_

_Blood- __blood loss Scarecrow… we've been bleeding pretty badly whilst you were 'playing'…_

_**Ah fu-…**_

_**

* * *

**_

"Urgh… cold…" I nuzzle the sodden scarf around my sore neck (damn cold), and make an exhausted move to stand up, glancing at my watch.

3:47am.

"Why the hell am I…?" Something, more specifically someone, catches my eye: Doctor Crane, covered in blood, unconscious in the snow. Everything clicks into place: the beating, the deaths of the thugs, the, the gas? Oh-! The **gas**!

Panicking I held a hand to my mouth and nose, trying desperately not to hyperventilate. _That gas made me… didn't it…? It mad me visit that place again? A –oh what's it called- a__**hallucinogen**__! __**That's**__ what it was…_

A moan to my left makes me jump, Crane appearing to be in a fight for his life now thrashed from side to side before settling still.

"Scarecrow… Scare…crow…"

Recoiling again at his voice, I frown slightly in puzzlement: _wasn't his voice different earlier?_

"You're a mystery, that's for sure…" I gingerly smile, wondering if the 'Doctor' was suffering from nightmares. _Irrelevant!_ Yells my –reasonable- side of my mind, _he just tried to __**kill**__ you last night and now you're pondering over __**his**__ little fears? Remember his face when you were frightened! That's not normal!_

I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose just above my –slipping- glasses. _Great. Now I'm hearing voices… _Silence. _Or maybe that's just the fact that it's nearly four in the morning…_

Glancing over at Crane, I shiver involuntarily. _Something about that man seems just… wrong somehow. And yet… not everyone's all bad, right? Everyone needs a second chance. He didn't kill me after all… _I carefully begin to creep closer to the –not so older looking- man to inspect his wounds, wishing that I had attended all those First Aid courses I had been invited to… laziness has its downsides after all.

After about five minutes I finally realise that standing still and gaping at his bleeding body is defiantly going to do little good in the present icy weather.

_Suits his eyes though doesn't it?_

_Oh no, no, no, no, no! I __**cannot**__ think of this man as attractive! Remember what happened in my last relationship…remember that and I'll never get romantically involved with anyone ever, ever again…_

_

* * *

_

"_Kiss me." _

_Taking a book from the extensive university library shelf, I brush past the sleaze-ball (aka: Joe) to check out early._

_I suppose I could read the psychology book in the dorms… yep, what with all the constantly drinking horny, MALE room-mates I have, yep, I'll be fine. Especially since I cook for them- if they even dare try and hit on me, no food for any of them. End of story._

"_Go on!" Moans the boy as he blocks my way to the check out desk._

"_Seriously," I frown, giving him a disapproving (or maybe more pissed off) glare, "get lost before I-"_

"_Before you what? I know you hate violence, oh! And the word hate! Whoops, sorry!" He sticks out his tongue is a 'cute' way, which only succeeds in making my eye twitch. _

"_I'm an awesome kisser you know…"_

"_One more word," I start, malice dripping from each word. It's not that I don't like flirting per say (it doesn't happen often at all really); but when you hear about a certain bet containing the uni' man-whore, yourself and a bed, well, anyone's bound to get a little angry. Just a little._

_Raising an eyebrow he taunts, "I know you want to…"_

_Mimicking his whiney voice I reply, "No I don't…"_

"_Come on! I can… you know…"_

_Now that sparked my interest by a fraction: an unfinished sentence…_

"_You can what?"_

_Scuffing his trainer toe on the slate floor he mumbles something._

"_Pardon?"_

"_I can pay you…"_

_Needless to say that –heavy- psychology book came in handy._

_

* * *

_

Shaking my head to rid it of untimely (not to mention unpleasant) flashbacks, I loop my arms under the –now bluish- doctor's knees and shoulders and pick him up. His weight somewhat surprisingly light, even to my meagre muscles.

_I hope he'll be okay on the scooter…_


	3. Off with the mask and onto the scooter!

**Chapter Three: ****Off with the mask and onto the scooter!**

After much debate I decide that simply sitting Doctor Crane in front of me on the **one** person seat is in fact a bad idea.

Driving with him leaning horribly close to my freezing body didn't seem to work awfully well either…

"Damnit Crane! I don't care if you're bloody and unconscious; but this is sexual harassment!" The words moan through my teeth as his head falls –again- from an awkwardly bent position in the crook of my –luckily scarf covered- neck, down the front of my chest.

_Thank goodness I'm a patient person._Shifting as much as I dare whilst driving in such a tired, bothersome, not to mention horrendously anxious, state, the fearsome man's head is budged so that-!

"Bugger!" Crane's lovely –_**must**__ stop thinking like this_- wavy hair now ripples wildly in the 26mph breeze as his head lolls away from its 'cushion' (my poor, petrified body…) to the left. Taking about 70% of my already questionable balance with it. Clamping my chilled; yet gloved hands on both of the breaks and making a simply outrageous swerve into the nearest open space (luckily a small shop's car park somewhere close to the stone apartment where I now live), the pale sky scooter manages to heave itself to a safe stop without tippling over.

Finally able to breathe again, I narrow my eyes down at the doctor, "This is entirely your fault! Can't you just **stay still**?" With no reply except for exaggerated, laborious breathing from the still unconscious man, a sigh works its way from my throat past my cracking lips. "Never mind. Sorry, I don't mean to blame you," _although you haven't really been the perfect gentleman exactly… _"But hopefully you'll appreciate my help once you wake up, hm?" Settling the lanky man's damp suited body as fast as humanly possible into a more comfortable and manageable position –although mostly focusing upon the latter- we find ourselves fit to go once more: the final short stretch of the journey was hopefully going to be less eventful…

* * *

From deep within Jonathan Crane's fractured mind, the Scarecrow listens with a pressing resent.

_**That's right girl, the second I wake up it won't be Johns you see; but me! Ha! Then you'll be sorry that you saved-!**_

_**No! **_Snarling now, Scarecrow thrashes his head viciously. _**You did not save us! **_**I**_** am the only one with that power! You are **_**nothing**_** but a pawn to us: meaningless, expendable! Although… **_pacing, the-man-but-not-quite flicks through both his own thoughts and those of his 'roomie', his 'other-half' searching… searching for answers to a question he didn't yet know. _**Hmp. So what if you do save us? I –we- can be grateful… but then again… **_A wiry smile passes unto his rough lips; an inexplicable darkness surrounding its very presence, _**not everyone shows their **_**appreciation**_** in the same ways…**_

The feeble scooter engine's roar may be loud; but the chilling chuckle from inside Jonathan's head is defiantly louder.

_**Just you wait girl… I'll **__**play the waiting game… for now.**_

_**

* * *

**_"Hold on, Doctor Crane… we've almost made it!" Parking up the scooter just inside the secure garage left nearby for residence (at only a marginal extra cost may I add), I almost feel myself cry with relief at the lack of people –even police- driving or otherwise generally outside at this time of morning/night limbo. Lying had never really been my strong point when dealing with people, honesty is normally the more moral means of coping; albeit sometimes requiring the odd white lie to avoid being too outspoken, rude, or simply for protection...

Pocketing the keys and slipping off my –actually icy- light leather driving gloves (_mental note: must find a better pair for winter…_) I find that putting the stand up whilst still on the bike was the simple part. Now is the time to get the oblivious Doctor Crane from the scooter to my second to top-floor apartment, whilst he remains unconscious, thus limp and oddly heavier in my arms… or is that fear draining at my will to do this seemingly stupid task?

_He tried to poison the whole city according to that goon! Even if he was lying (although what reason would he have to lie then?), Crane just murdered all of those men in cold blood… _I shiver, gazing through my glasses at the back of his dark haired head. _If I wasn't going to help him, then why is he here, right now? It doesn't feel right to leave someone to die like that; even if that person is a bit of a psychotic fiend…_

Sounder in belief that I am doing the right thing, I carefully hold Crane's unusually feminine shoulders for support for him and balance for both of us (not to mention the slightly abused scooter underneath) and slide off the side of the vehicle.

So far so good.

The next step was to take the –now only slowly bleeding- man up the eight flights of stairs (the lift had recently broken) to the quarter of a floor which I could call home and then to treat his wounds with the first aid kit given to me by my over cautious grandparents for when I moved over here. _They are defiantly getting more than just a postcard when I write… _

Momentarily gently setting Crane on the frigid stone floor of the garage, I slip off my helmet and put it under the scooter's seat for safekeeping. Picking back up the shuddering (_well, it __**is**__ cold_) man, I take a sharp gasp as something peaks out from under his storm grey suit jacket: the burlap mask.

Unable to suppress a whimper whilst it comes into plain view as I stumble from the garage side door into the small meeting square of the apartment block, the memory of why I so foolishly chose to keep the man and the mask together drifts into the forefront of my racing mind…

* * *

_Maybe leaving Doctor Crane alone back there wasn't the best idea,_ the reasonable side of my mind (the most unwelcome side if you ask me) argues, in response I twist the right handle of my scooter and accelerate nervously, _he could be dead by now… Or he could be __**awake**__… which one is better? Maybe you should just leave now and save the effort of trying to save such a freakish bas-!_

Shaking my helmed head from left to right several times helps to clear my head of such uncharacteristically pessimistic thoughts… _He'll be bleeding still- slower since it's so cold I think; but that same cold will kill him unless he gets home right away… maybe taking him back to my place __**is **__actually a decent idea? _Softly smiling at the optimism leaking back into my brooding thoughts, I relish the feeling of having my normal self back as the scooter draws closer to the mysterious stranger on the snowy ground.

Skidding to a stop close to the unconscious doctor, I can't help but wince as I see the rough sack obscuring his face. The makeshift eyeholes may have **before** allowed the free viewing of the doctor's stark icy eyes; yet now nothing is being given away. The only thing which I can see about his eyes is –honestly- nothing. Pure, sin black, bleak emptiness is what makes up his eyes from what I can see, in this dire lighting. The mere sight makes me feel somewhat hopeless about my fumbling strengths.

Shakily, I jump from the still running scooter and knock it onto its rickety stand. After several too long moments of staring at the man's falling and rising chest (his masked face proved too much after the last time I had seen it in **that** place…), alarm bells ring in my mind and tell me get moving if you **really** want to save this sadistic monster.

_He's still human, still __**human**__… Creepy yes, frightening yes, a monster? Maybe his actions are; but physically he's still a person. _

With jerky movements, I manage to kneel beside the lithe man's body and was about to pick him up went an idea stuck: _if you're so frightened of the mask, why not take it off? _

"It's not mine to take," I whisper, paranoid that the eyeless man was watching, listening to everything going on. "Although maybe, m-maybe I should… that way I'll be able to check his temperature too." I add, hastily trying to justify my fearful logic. Biting my burningly cold lower lip and straining to keep my eyes focused upon the fearsome mask, I use a quivering hand to tug it off in one fell swoop, half expecting a bony hand to seize a cutting hold on my wrist as I do so.

The mask was off. Blinking hard and still unable to restrain from shaking, I hurriedly hide the mask in the –less bloody- space between Doctor Crane's shirt and suit jacket over the left side of his chest.

Over his heart.

* * *

Emerging from the recent frightening memory, I find myself in front of my own thick wooden door, staring dully at a long, hand-written note blue-tacked onto it:

_Hey there newbie!_

_Gone away on a business holiday with most of the other renters in the block! _

_(Funny how we all moved here for that job at Wayne Enterprise, Mr. Wayne is such an awesome guy believe me: gave us all a job even though only one place was advertised since we were all so great and all! I'll have to introduce you two sometime at one of his charity balls- hopefully he won't burn down his place this time!)_

_So, if you're feeling lonely, sorry but rest assured that we'll all be partying in Vegas for about twelve days- God that's going to be one hell of a hangover coming back!_

_Don't feel worried or anything about being broken into just because most other folks aren't here- those security gates out front (and the garage) are 100% safe! So we've left you something you should really worry about next to your TV set…_

_Have fun kiddo! I know we will!_

_Your 'darling' landlord,_

_Jay._

_P.S. – Martha left you some __curry in a pot in your kitchen. I told her you don't like spicy food but she didn't believe me. _

Smiling at the note, I forgot about the man in my arms for a moment as a girlish giggle rises up my throat; Jay could always make me laugh. From arriving in a city filled with so many different people and sites that it made me almost instantly homesick and teary; right up 'til now where I stood with the most terrifying man I have ever met in my arms… _Jay has a wonderful gift,_ I decide, placing the unconscious Crane on the floor next to the oak door and hunting for my keys, pocketing the note in the short process. _The power of laughter is surely mightier –and far better received- than most other strengths. _

With a 'clack' the door eases open, allowing Doctor Crane to be carted into my dim, slate floored hallway. The smell of Martha's famous curry wafts into my nostrils and almost makes me drop Crane. _It smells delicious!_ Sighing, I reluctantly continue my path to the one and only bedroom, _too bad even 'mild' curries are way too spicy for my tongue… _

With nothing but the hushed padding of my feet for company, I feel a sense of safety wash over my thoughts, soothing worries and exhaustion into a more manageable hum.

_First I'll treat Crane's wounds: washing them and using bandages and what-not should be enough… _Hopping somewhat oddly on one foot and using the other to push down the brass handle of the bedroom door, the said honey wood door swings open with scarcely a noise.

To be frank, for the majority of my life I've been used to reasonably small rooms: my old bedroom in our family home had been a narrow 'L' shape, with little space thanks to the mass of shelves and cupboards surrounding the sides; it always took an awfully long time to search them all for any monsters… But then again we lived in the country, so my parents told me and my younger brother (by that time the eldest had already left) that monsters didn't travel north much since it was too cold for them. Lucky us.

My next home was the student dorms in the university I had recently left, only about an hour's journey from home! Brilliant! Yet the people I was 'budding' with were three 'buff' guys. Not so great. How I had managed to survive living in that box-like (in terms of shape **and** size) dorm is beyond me; yet with threats of no food, exams and the clubbing of the said 'buff' guys with large leather-bound books, I managed to pull through mainly okay and with more patience than your average monk.

_Although they __**did**__ make me lose most of my sanity… _I titter, shrugging the duvet away with the same foot which had earlier opened the door; _this room is defiantly the biggest room (and overall place- I have my own fridge for a change! No more mini-fridge filled with beer and who knows what else!) That's for sure!_

That was at least, until I started to clutter the place up with more books, console games, generally interesting things (mainly teapots (which I collect) and intricate ornaments) and that was without mentioning the H.R. Giger inspired artwork on the deep, sloping walls…

_If Crane wakes up from a nightmare,_ I muse somewhat torn between dark amusement and being anxious, _then he'll think he's still in it…_

After delicately placing the doctor onto the mattress (_oh, please don't let blood stain, don't let blood stain… CSI will have the answers to getting it out…_), I gingerly touch his burlap mask, shivering as the rough, scratchy texture of it hits my fingertips. Suppressing a shudder, my fingers manage to curl and pick up the mask. _There… not so hard was it?_

Settling the mask on the –also wooden- bedside table, I make a mental note not to look other that way until later notice to avoid having any vivid flashbacks of what happened when the g-gas invaded my system.

_Just forget it. It's over now. Doctor Crane wouldn't use the gas now that I've helped- __**Wait.**_ Lacing together, my eyebrows form a shallow frown_. I… I didn't do this because of that, helping others…I did this because I like to help others… or maybe 'helping others' is just a subliminal 'do the right thing otherwise some day someone's going to hunt you down for not doing anything'? Regardless, I helped Doctor Crane because I __**wanted**__ to. It was –and still is- the right thing to do. Nothing else matters right now… better get some warm water, clean cloths and bandages…_

Fortunately, I had unpacked everything in my first few days of moving in, so everything needed for treating the unconscious man in my –unluckily white sheeted- bed was swiftly located and brought back into the cluttered (compared to the rest of the apartment) bedroom.

Suddenly feeling like a bit of an uneasy, perverted prat, whilst shakily slipping off Crane's upper body clothes, did not appear to be the sort of feeling I currently needed right now.

"Oh for the love of-!" My breath catches in my throat as my widened orbs dance between the damp cloth in one hand and the naked male torso I found myself kneeling next to. Taking a deep breath, an annoying part of brain reminds me that by even touching the man in front of me right now, it will be the 'furthest' I have ever been with-!

Biting down on my hand, I close my eyes and count to ten…

_One, oh great! Taking advise from movies now… what the hell was that degree in psychology even for?_

_Two._

_Three._

_Four, so what if Doctor Crane isn't wearing a shirt? I should be used to this from __**those**__ drawing classes… nudity isn't exactly socially acceptable; but it __**is**__ natural._

_Five, it's not like I'm kissing him…_

_Six, yep, that would be weird…_

_Seven, first kiss with an unconscious man, that'd be plain creepy._

_Eight._

_Nine._

_Ten. Well __**this**__ certainly stops any nervous thinking doesn't it?_

Removing my mouth from my hand, I inhale sharply, then let the breath escape slowly, emptying my lungs completely.

_Time to get to work._


	4. Where are my socks…?

**Chapter Four: ****Where are my socks…?**

Usually I have little to no difficulty waking up, no matter the time; yet on this particular morning I could not help but groan at the dull ache, throbbing under every inch of skin- especially around my torso.

_**Don't you remember Johns? We got into a fight and…**_

Ignoring Scarecrow and the ache of my body, I ease myself up to sit straight in the spacey bed, allowing the –oddly patterned- white and red duvet to fall from my **bandaged** body.

Something else is off too: the air smells warm, homely… but what-?

_**The girl left us **_**tea**_**.**_ Sniggers Scarecrow, before full-out laughing in the back of my mind.

I frown, glaring about the strangely decorated bedroom, _and how is tea supposed to help exactly?_ I ask, now looking at one of the many black and white drawings of some monstrous creature on the slanted walls.

Scarecrow shrugs, _**like hell I know, why not ask her yourself? She sounded tired before, five a.m. is about the time she finished patching you up, so she'll probably be sleeping by now. **_Then adds enthusiastically,_** maybe she'll need a wake up call?**_

"No," surprised at how horse my voice sounds, I accidentally pause long enough for my devious companion to interrupt.

_**Aw,**_ he coos, almost sounding concerned, **almost**. _**You must have gotten a cold from lying out in the snow for so long… honestly, you **_**should**_** know by now not to try and make snow angels whilst you're in a suit…**_

_Shut up Scarecrow._ Growling mentally, I wonder as to how I came to this, not having Scarecrow in my mind, that's fine for me; but being helped by a complete stranger… now **that** is abnormal…

_**Surely you're not against random acts of kindness Johnny? I thought that all this was right up you street? Guess I'm wrong and you're just a heartless**__**, little-**_

_I said be __**quiet**__. _

**You**_** can't order me about! Now, why don't you be a good little doctor and go find our coat, hm? It still has some spare gas…**_

Massaging my temples with –thankfully- warm hands, I try to block out Scarecrow's ramblings for the sakes of having some space to think and for the –much needed- quiet.

…_**fine, have it your way**__** for now. I'll leave you to your thoughts. Oh! Just before I go, **_a grin works it's way onto my, no, Scarecrow's face as he settles into a loose control of my body.

"Let me play for… six minutes," rolling his neck, I find-out that my neck can make that meaningless cracking noise, which the bullies at school used to do before a beating. "If you let me play now, then I'll **promise** to be good later when you need me to-!"

Since Scarecrow's rule over my body is so uncharacteristically weak at the present moment, I easily manage to regain command over my limbs; although not before a warning snarl forces its way through my teeth.

"You'll regret this, Johns! When did you become so-?"

With one last heave, I mange to stop the final words of Scarecrow's threat from leaving my throat.

_**-boring?**_

The silence, which I know comes next after making Scarecrow leave, is blissfully serine; albeit perhaps lonely. Reaching over to the lukewarm cup of tea, I sip at it, all the time wishing it was coffee.

A chuckle comes from the back of my mind once more however, _**not the most gentlemanly comment…**_

_Don't you__ have plans to be making or something?_ I smoothly cut in over the voice.

_**Why yes, yes I do… thank you Johnny.**_

_You are welcome._

Draining the rest of the tea (_I suppose it isn't all that bad_), I slip from the bed and automatically turn to straighten out the covers when I freeze.

The queer red/white pattern I had noticed before is only on **my** side of the bed: the haphazard dark crimson pattern is my **blood**.

"Well then…" I swallow, somewhat astounded by the overwhelming ratio of red to white on the bed. "That isn't particularly healthy."

Regardless, I smooth out the –mostly dry- duvet and flick on the antique bedside light to reveal the rest of the bedroom to my (admittedly shocking) blue eyes.

The amount of games, random dainty ornaments and… teapots? Did come as a bit of surprise to be fair; although not as much as the sight of a certain long chocolate haired woman, with a few cushions and a blanket, sprawled out on the lush red carpet (_she must be well paid…_) at the foot of the bed.

Speechless for a change, I couldn't help but stare at the young woman as she looked so different to the terrified person in Scarecrow's memories; _but then again, everyone looks that way to him: just playthings…_

Oddly there is no rebuke, so I continue my analysis of the girl.

Her skin was a healthy peachy colour, if not a tad pale from spending too much time indoors, since her body showed little signs of muscle; although the blanket does cover most of her body. Her face is a stout oval shape, not round or oval, somewhere in-between… it suits her hair-

_**Oh shut up Johns!**_ Snaps a familiar (and unwelcome) voice, _**you sound like a lovesick puppy! Honestly… you think she'll fall for someone like you?**_ A cruel laugh rings through my head, as Scarecrow continues. **Especially**_** after letting me play with her… yeah, **_**romantic**_**, what a way to go Johnny…**_

Pushing the pest (_**I heard that…**_) to the back of my mind, I tear away my eyes and move to satisfy my most immediate need…

"Where the hell are the rest of my clothes?"

* * *

A clattering noise jerks me awake.

"What the-?" Tossing away the blanket I had been sleeping on and several obstructing pillows, I sleepily clamber to my sock-clad feet. The nightdress (long shirt) I wore slips down one shoulder as I walk forward to confront the thief. _I'll show them not to steal from me… I wonder if there's any ice-cream left in the freezer?_

Rubbing one eye and reaching down with the other hand for the pouch-like pocket which holds my –much needed- navy framed glasses, I find them and slip them on.

Dragging my feet across the cold slate to the kitchen, I almost forgot about the thief when an eerie voice calls out.

"Where did you put our clothes? All I could find was my mask next to the-"

Groaning and smashing my face between my hands, my mind begins its assault: _how can you __**forget**__ that there's a __**psychopath**__ in your home? Wait, let's rephrase that… how can you forget that there's a __**half naked**__ psychopath wandering about your apartment looking for his shoes; socks; shirt; coat and oh look! At __**least**__ he's found his terrifying mask! Now then: option one, scream and run; or option two: beg for your life?_

Promptly forgetting my inner dialogue, I stare at the man's bandaged torso and try to keep a sleepy grin from my face… and fail dismally.

"You should really put a shirt on," I manage before having to gaze at a very interesting piece of slate on the floor. Then –upon realising my tiredness induced mistake- I add, "your stuff's just been soaked in the sink and is hanging up to dry at the moment: I can't get the blood off, sorry…"

The silence which follows is intense, deafening even. So I wrap my arms around myself and glance up to steal a picture of-

"Oh crikey!" I exclaim, jumping terribly at the sudden closeness of the doctor. His mask had gone, left on the counter behind him.

"What am I to do for clothes then?" Crane asks, his eyes piercing my own as they warily watch his every move with fear.

"Uh, there are some…" I mumble, trailing off with a feeling of heat upon my cheeks.

"Some what?"

"Some shirts of mine that might fit you…" I rub my arms nervously and glance sideways then back again aversely, "although they might be a bit miss fitting, since well, you're slightly taller than me and your arms are definitely longer and you don't have bo-"

"Enough." Crane huffs once, his bare shoulders lifting up once then down again. "Stop rambling; where can I find these shirts?"

_He's annoyed with me,_ I give a single minute shiver of worry; _don't make him angry for goodness sake…_ Realising that I was taking far too long to answer, I panic for a moment as his eyes turn colder than my blood and he glares down into me, _like he can read my mind…_

Shivering again more visibly this time, I turn on my –fluffy- socked heel and lead the way back to my room.

"Th-the wardrobe's just through here," my voice calls, sounding quieter than usual. Surprisingly Crane hears me (or just guesses) and shadows my path as we return to the room.

I glance at the bed and feel a jolt as I notice that it had been made.

"Thanks," I say warmly, not caring at the moment for who the man is, only that the act seems so gentlemanly that I am thrown slightly by it.

Crane doesn't say anything, but I imagine that he nods in acknowledgement.

Easing open the wardrobe doors, I pull out a long sleeved white shirt like the one Doctor Crane had been wearing earlier and a neon green blazer with multiple badges on it (the closest item of clothing which I owned to a suit jacket). Passing those to the glasses wearing-

"You have glasses?" I blurt out before thinking, earning me a disapproving look for my stupidity "I mean, you weren't wearing them before is all. When you had the mask… um, at least your vision isn't that bad then, if you don't need them all the time- lucky." Letting a laugh escape my smiling lips, I hope that the mention of the mask won't bring back the 'fear talks'…

"I won't need this," Crane –unsurprisingly- passes me back the blazer with a ghost of a smile, "thank you."

At that small display of kindness my heart begins to race and-!

"No worries," I turn and hunt for some normal-looking socks to distract myself from the thoughts of the man behind me, "ah-ha! Found some, I hope you're okay with scarecrows." Holding them out to Crane, he slowly, somewhat cautiously takes them from my hand. All the while, his frosty eyes trying to catch my own suspiciously.

_He probably thinks this is some sort of joke. _

"Sorry," glancing tensely at his face, "all my other socks are stranger. Apparently these are the most 'business friendly', since they're so dark… or so my last boss told me." It was most certainly true about them being dark- and in more ways than one: the colouration was limited to shades of grey and brown and as for the scarecrows themselves… they were… having a tea party with the Mad Hatter and a flock of crows.

"Any others?" Drawls the doctor, handing back the outlandish socks, his knuckles unusually white from keeping a tight fist for so long.

That time he saw me shiver.

"I-I'll j-just check…!"

After a few lucky seconds of searching, I drew back confident that **these** socks will be more acceptable.

The expression on the fear-loving doctor's face was priceless as I gave him the socks with man eating wombats on.

There was a momentary pause until,

"I'll go get changed in the bathroom…"


	5. There's no place

**Chapter Five: ****There's no place like a home where no one can hear you scream…**

Breathing normally once more, since Crane had left the room to change; I scratch my neck uneasily and moan,

"Why am I doing this again…?" Letting my hand fall away, I glance at the shady clock on the wall.

_6:37__am._

Staring at the inky clock hands for a moment (I can't remember seeing such an early time), I scratch my neck again and amble towards the sink in the corner of my room. Casting aside a few stray pots of ink and experimental paints, I grab my toothbrush and get busy with cleaning myself up with a cloth after brushing. _There's no point in going to sleep now, might as well get ready for the rest of today… I get the feeling that this is going to bizarre to say the least. _

Finding some pinstripe blue jeans and a polo-neck purple tank top, I hurriedly change and suddenly pause. The night's string of peculiar events finally making a strange sort of sense in my dizzying thoughts.

_Crane poisoned me…_

…_he passed out from blood loss…_

…_I took him home on a scooter to treat…_

…_and now he's awake, getting changed, and wants the rest of his stuff back._

"Oh God…" Perching on the end of the neat (I reluctantly shiver, _my bed is __**never**__ so precisely made_) bed, I lean forward and burry my face in my hands. _Why am I shaking? Nothing's happened __**here**__ yet…_

A creak of the door opening cause me to jump and fall fluidly into a fighting stance: my right foot forward with knees bent, hands forming feral claw shapes… which are forcefully reinforced by the talon-like length of my nails…

A shadow, then a man appears in the honey wood door frame.

"Doctor Crane?" I ask meekly, _of course it's Crane! Who else is here? Stupid jumpy personality… _Rising from the stance, my lips risk a smile, "Did you-"

Yet his eyes dry what courage I have as he glares at me, flinching from his intense expression.

"What do you want?" He enquires politely enough; although his eyes –**his** **eyes!** - suggest otherwise.

"Nothing." I reply quickly, too quickly. The taller man takes a step closer, his very presence sending shockwaves of dread through me now.

"Y-you think I want a-a reward for what I d-did?"

"Yes," Crane replies, as dead-on as ever, not wasting a word. "And," he continues, pacing even closer to my shaking self. "I want to know what you were pursuing when you…" the doctor's eyebrows knit together and his thin lips twist downwards at the corners, "**aided** u- me."

Unable to stop shaking from having Crane the poisoner so close, I wrap my arms around my waist; despite it being a clear sign of attempting to create a barrier between me and the Crane. Thankfully that simple alteration to my body language gives me a slight increase in confidence, thus a chance to speak before its meagre effects wear off.

"How about the name of the man I," _he didn't appear to like the way I __**saved**__ him… _"**Assisted**? Unless you're first name is in fact, Doctor?"

Even Crane had to smile slightly at that one, "Jonathan," his electric eyes softened by a fraction then, "and you are-?"

"Lilly," I lie immediately, surprising myself; yet not wanting to take back the fake name: doubting one's self preservation drive would surely be fatal. Holding out a –still- hand, I give Cra- Jonathan a shy grin, "Lilly Root. Don't laugh, but my parents were big plant lovers back in the day."

"Were?"

"They soon discovered the joys of computer gaming," shaking my head and Jonathan's lanky hand, while resisting the urge to laugh, I continue, "I come from a family of 'geeks' as you would say over here; but I love them for it."

Jonathan releases my hand and gives a low chuckle.

"Sounds interesting; I am **not** going to share my family life with you however."

_Ouch. He changes fast: mild to artic__, faster than a midget on speed…_

"O-okay then, I don't mind," and now he's made me nervous all over again… _he doesn't have the gas does-? _Panicking from the route my thoughts are taking, I swiftly start speaking in hope of subduing **that** dreadful emotion.

"Care to explain what happened yesterday?" _Oh no. __**That**__ came out wrong…_ "I-I mean," an amused stare catches me off guard, "would you like a drink?" Taking a step around the smirking man, something brushes against my wrist and I freeze: _that something feels like metal…_

"Why don't you tell me what you were feeling yesterday… this morning rather," he corrects himself, amused, before taking a firm hold upon my wrist and holding a small, oblong canister in my face, shaking it side to side. It sounds full. "You might even," his eyes glint suddenly, "be feeling it now…"

"Fear…" the word leaves my mouth in a breathless whisper, I'm nervous to even speak the word, especially **now** around Jonathan. Yet… yet, I'll call this a test. An **experiment**. Can Crane stand me saying the word which earlier made him so… frightening? Studying his face I can see no change, not even his glinting, icy eyes move….

* * *

Funny how roles can be reversed: I am a psychologist, this… Lilly, is the sort of person I may have treated in my earlier years (suffering only from mild anxiety perhaps?). Although now, she studies me, my face, for any signs of reaction to a stimulus. Fear. But not even **real** fear- just the word.

_**Isn't she fun? Come on, let me play with her! I think she deserves some thanks for what she did for us…**_

_Stop it Scarecrow. If I remember rightly __**you**__ got us into this mess. You didn't even try to use the gas on those thugs for a change, if I hadn't-!_

_**Of course I didn't use it Johnny**__**.**_

Crane frowns, now that's confusing: Scarecrow no longer wanting to scare?

_**I did it because I wanted to see how you would react Johns! You were growing to be so boring now that you're no longer a Doctor at Arkham! But don't worry; now we have a new toy to-**_

_**

* * *

**_

"Bastard." Growls Jonathan suddenly, making me jump. "You **idiot**. Experimenting on me? Me! Who do you think is in control here?"

"Sorry!" I flinch, expecting another wintry glare to pin me to the spot, "I didn't mean to intrude. I-"

"-will never do so again? Good decision. Next time I shall make it certain that you will be able to never get out again should you break your promise."

_What? 'never get out again'? What the-?_

"You're hurting me!" I cry, shocked at the sudden increase in pressure on my wrist. Instinctively tapping my thigh (learned as a sign of submission to be freed from a pin, etc, in Aikido), I fight the overwhelming urge to attack Crane- my top source of pain at the present moment. "Let go! Please! Jonathan, what's wrong-?"

The said man's hand jerks back and I stumble away from him, tears of pain and fright in my eyes.

Taking a moment to check the damage (deep black and purple bruises are already forming where his fingers were); I miss the way which Crane's body seems to struggle with itself before relaxing. His heavy breathing however, I do not miss.

"What do I w-want, Jonathan? Shouldn't you have asked y-**yourself** the same thing: being so f-fr-frightening before th-then so w-warm and now **this**?" Holding up my sore wrist into the light, I glare at Jonathan. Anger and fear morphing together inside, causing a massive surge of one, then the other to take other, worryingly obvious from the snarl/stutter in my accusing tone.

"What do **I** want you ask?" His footsteps are louder, I realise, flicking my eyes to his feet and trailing them back up again I appreciate suddenly how fast clothes can dry given time… Crane's wearing his –bloodstained- fog grey suit again and I hadn't realised? What the hell is-? "I want few things which concern you Miss Root. My… partner however," _**Partner? **__Now he's lost me…_ "Wants many things, including many to do with you." Fortunately Crane's smile hadn't turned dark again as I backed away from him through the open door and into the cool hallway.

"Wh-what sort of things?" I shoot, stalling, for what, I don't know… **time?**

"Oh," Jonathan smiles, completely fake obviously; but my mind doesn't comprehend it, only his hand holding the gas canister... _Is he going to use it or not? _"Just this and that… a bit of mutilation, screaming, finding out what you-"

"-fear?" I blurt out, as the wall prevents any chance of escape.

Crane opens his mouth slowly, deliberately; the darkness settling over his features and-! He spins away from me, his long fingers massaging the sides of his head.

Frozen still, I hear him muttering something so low that every word blends into the next… if they are words at all.

Taking this opportunity, I slip past Jonathan (who by now is glaring, still muttering, at a piece of poetry which I'd impulsively stuck to the wall) and sneak through the door-less doorframe which leads directly into the kitchen/ living room.

Letting out a sigh (_that was too close, but to __**what**__ I wonder…_) and pulling open the fridge, I find myself gazing at the lack of desirable substances. _There,_ I reach down, _a bottle of ginger ale… perfect._

Rummaging in the draws for a bottle opener proved a great distraction for the fact that there was a delusional 'doctor' obsessed by fear in the apartment. That is until a chillingly close voice murmurs.

"You have an interesting sense of decoration. Poetry has never personally appealed to me."

Almost dropping the bottle, I force my body to gradually turn and face Jonathan Crane.

"How's that?"

After considering something and gazing through his rimless glasses into my mind (_no, he's not psychic… wait, what __**does**__ he do? Doctor- a medical or-?_), Crane replies.

"I'm a psychologist." I swear I must have looked at him a bit **too** sharply (_holy cow, he __**is**__ psychic!_), because he coolly continues, "Is it really that hard to believe? I thought you may have worked that out by now; I searched some of your drawers and found your graduation papers-"

"You **what**?" Promptly forgetting that this man holds a **hallucinogen** which could make me scream and weep like a child irrationally afraid of the dark **and** that he is **prone** to using the dreadful substance. I grab his shoulders and give him a –light- shake. "Are out of your **mind**? That's my stuff you were 'searching'! Haven't you any manners?" Letting go of him and pacing backwards and forwards in the small kitchen area, I continue, "I helped you out for who knows why –blame my hypersensitivity to others suffering- and you go sniffing through my cupboards? Honestly…" tugging in frustration at my long, ruffled hair and closing my eyes to allow darkness to take away the world's colours and shape, I focus on calming down. "I can hardily believe that you just made me so angry…please, leave me be for a few minutes."

Crane's voice cuts over mine, accusing, _like he should be the one who's worried!_

"In a kitchen filled with potential weapons?" He smirks, tilting his head as he considers the prospect, "I don't think that would be a wise decision."

Sighing, I place the bottle of ginger ale from before onto the deadly cold stone counter.

"Is there any point arguing with you?"

"Are you usually so defeatist?" Jonathan asks, turning to walk next to me as we travel at a snails pace (or maybe it just feels that way being so close to him…) into the adjoining living room, towards the –only- two carved oak chairs in the room, situated either side of a small table with a half finished game of chess still set out on the table.

Crane glances at it, then me, "Does someone else live here?"

"N-no…" Gulping once then hesitantly peeking at his face, I admit, "I just moved here –America **and** Gotham- so there's no one to play with… um, I…"

"You… what?" Crane prompts, ceasing our walk with a glance.

"I," _okay, admit this and Jonathan –the possible psychopath and indefinite physiatrist- will think you're insane…_ "Play chess with myself, it's odd; but at least you can never really lose…" Ending with a short laugh, I'm shocked to hear another low chuckle join in: Crane.

"Is that so…?"

Even though the question (?) sounded like more a statement I nod; _thank goodness he has a sense of humour…_

The next question is more throwing; although not unexpected for some strange reason: "What do you do for living?" _Here comes twenty questions…_

"Artist- I do commissions and illustrations. I write too; but that never really got off well."

"Why?"

"I get bored of extended story lines."

"What genre?"

"Horror and comedy… romance has a tendency to make me physically sick."

"So no boyfriend?"

"No." Jerking back to thoughts containing some degree of common sense and self preservation, a feeling of terrible suspicion rises, "What does my –non existent- love life have to do with this?"

Crane shrugs, gauging my reaction… _but for __**what**__?_

"Well if I'm going to stay here for any length of time it's best to have an alibi for my presence-"

"Pardon?" Twitching on the edge of spasming, my nails claw at my neck, an overwhelming feeling of: _what the __**heck**__?_ Leeching off my rationality. "You're staying? Why?"

With a tired sigh, Jonathan slips off his rimless glasses.

"Don't," I croak, suddenly trembling uncontrollably, "p-put that ma-mask on…"

"It isn't my intention to let him out." He snaps, sounding clipped and glaring.

"**Him?**" Relief; albeit drowning in shame, washes over my traumatized senses. "You mean the mask: **it?**"

"Of course, **it**, is what I meant." Retorts Crane, hastily turning away his wavy haired head; yet not before a firm line, set upon his straight lips, catches my swampy eyes.

_Let it pass for now. Wait… where is he going to sleep? Money: do I even make enough to feed two people a decent meal? Something tells me Jonathan won't appreciate living off Pop-Tarts and tea… does he even like tea?_

Lost in my own thoughts I pause momentarily, accidentally oblivious to the impatient man in front of me trying to speak with an unresponsive person. _Eh, if he doesn't like it, he can have water… no that's not being a good host; but then again he forced his stay here upon-!_

"Miss. Root!" A snap of fingers before my face sends a shock down my system.

"What? Ca- Lilly's fine by the way," _Focus! You almost slipped up there! _Thankfully Crane doesn't notice; although I know that I can't be so carless un the future. Further-more,the 'guest' seems to pass my stutter off as nerves thankfully.

"Lilly, I just asked you if have the T.V. set up yet. It's not working." Crane's eyebrows knitted together and he glares at the unfortunate remote. _Wow, how glad am I that I'm not that-_

"Lilly?" Jumping at the intensity of the elder man's (_by not much it seems, thankfully… wait, __**stop**__ thinking like that!_) glare, I stride over to the said silvery T.V. set and hit it. Hard.

"There," I proclaim, taking a step back to avoid blocking the –relatively small- screen. There was a larger one in my room (for gaming); but this one seemed good enough for the few guests (or **tenants** in Jonathan's case, I note glancing at him), which may have to be entertained by 'the box' as it were… "All working."

Brushing past me, the news is almost turned back off, just before 'the breaking news on Arkham's escapees and the situation in the Narrows'. Yet I hold out an arm to stop the doctor's attempt.

"I haven't watched the news over this side of the Atlantic yet; nor read a newspaper: too busy you see-"

"Oh, but I **suggest** that you switch it off." Crane's glacial eyes capture my own and hold them there, powerless.

"That's cheating…" I murmur, unable to tear away from his stare, unable to move despite him so close… the sound of the TV vanishing as Crane turns it off and straightens back up to face me.

"What?" Frowning with but a slight decline of his dark brows, he pulls himself closer, "is this cheating too…?"

* * *

Running my hands down the sides of Lilly's body to rest on her waist had seemed like a perfectly natural thing to do; although I can't remember a time where I had tried to so **gently** touch someone; _**apart from **_**restraining **_**yourself to cause more wonderful fear…**_

_**Quiet Scarecrow. **_I growl, trying to balance my aggression for my alter ego with the... gentler feelings for Lilly.

_**Wow Johnny! I'm impressed- you **_**can**_** sound just as fiendish as me! Really at this rate there'll be little difference between-!**_

_We are __**nothing**__ alike. _I hiss, unknowingly letting the cruel expression leak onto my face. The colour drains from Lilly's face in response.

_**Your lady-friend doesn't seem able to tell the difference. **_

_She-!_

_**-can speak for herself**__**? **_He cackles,_** but then again, that degree is psychology **_**should**_** prove that she can tell the difference between us and since she-**_

_-doesn't __**choose**__ to mention it?_

_**Because the poor girl's all **_**frightened**_**… **_

_This is because of your interfering!_I snarl internally, more immersed with my argument with Scarecrow than with the rest of reality.

A smirk from Scarecrow followed closely by a quiet cackle causes my thought to be on edge.

_What-__? _I start, only to be cut off by a smug, certain someone.

_**So are you going to **_**kiss**_** her Johns? Whoops, I think your serious face gave her a shock worth remembering…**_ and with that Scarecrow disappears once more to the corners of my consciousness.

Blinking back into reality as it were, I find myself not particularly surprised to see that Lilly had seemingly evaporated from my arms. _Not exactly what I had planned; but probably for the best…_ Casting my eyes about the warm, stone room, I watch the young woman standing by the wall opposite the table with the haphazard chess board set out upon its rickety, ancient frame, gazing with a loose interest at something stuck to the stone (_is __**everything**__ here stone or wood?_) wall. Silently treading closer, I see that the 'something' is a piece of crinkled paper, torn slightly at the edges. My brow automatically wrinkles in distaste:_ why keep something so worn; with the exception of Scarecrow's mask of course…_

Apparently my presence is able to announce itself and so –with few visible signs of caution curiously- Lilly turns her head to face me; a soft curtain of hair obscuring her expression from me. _Intentional?_ I muse suddenly finding her antics amusing and curling my lips into a –hopefully impassive- smile, _probably._

"Back from your dream world?" Lilly asks softly, keeping her voice low, hiding from my analysing.

"Yes," I reply, with out a sign of what had just happened, "What's the paper-?"

"A poem from a friend back home, only it was damaged in the post for some bizarre reason… listen," turning her body to me and jutting her chin upwards to look me in the eyes whilst she speaks, "I don't have a sofa or an extra bed lying about, so for sleeping arrangements-!"

"I'm fine with sleeping on the floor," I smile, allow reverse psychology to work in three, two, one…

An unexpected sigh of relief falls from Lilly's lush, red li-

_**Shut it Johns with the romantic dia-**_

_I know, I know…_

"… so I'll use the extra pillows and summer blankets for your bed in, w-well, my room, since it's the only room with carpet instead of slate, stone or wood as the flooring…"

_What? She went through all that effort to save my (__**our**__) life and then makes us sleep on the __**floor?**_

Thinking that the woman had finished her explanation of the glorified floor space she was going to set aside for me to sleep on, I feel the urgent need to-

_**-strangle her?**_

"Why don't we talk about this later?" Is all I can manage without causing more endless chatter, slipping a frail smile onto my face I continue before Lilly's mouth could open to retaliate. "I don't think **either** of us wants to sleep on the floor."

"But you said-"

"I lied."

The brunette considers my deadpan look and shrugs, "just say so next time then. If you don't want to, then there's no helping that…"

_Or yourself in this situation._ I mentally add onto the end of her words, suiting the dimmed, almost helpless light in her murky green/brown eyes.

_**Aw,**_ tuts Scarecrow, _**how about you ask your little doll about all those poems she has tacked to the walls? Get some conversations going for a change?**_

"Why poems on the walls outside your room; rather than pictures?" I casually enquire, well, as casually as a man who is basically holding his 'host' hostage can enquire.

_What are you planning?_

_**Hush Johnny; listen to your happy**__**, little flower!**_

"The pictures in my room are just sketches and ideas really- not worth being displayed. These poems however are a collection of my favourites, from Tennyson to…"

Taking this moment as an opportunity to again harass Scarecrow for answers, I simply fix a smile to my face and nod periodically to Lilly's enthusiastic rambling on poetry.

_I'm pretending to listen.__ Now, are you happy?_

_**Very- look out you're walking into the corridor for a talk on-**_

_-sonnets, got it.__ What are you planning Scarecrow?_

_**It's a **_**secret**_**.**_

_I asked-_

_**-careful Johnny, she's asked you a question**__** now!**_

_I don't care._The snarled words rip from my inner throat._ Now what-?_

_**-will happen? Oh you'll see Johns, real soon- I promise…!**_A scraping bark of sadistic laughter fades away as the feelings and senses of the real world take hold.

"What's wrong?" A hand, Lilly's hand, touches my arm gently, a butterfly's wings dancing with the splitting fabric of my once handsome grey suit, _surely such a sensitive touch couldn't be wasted on someone as rough as-? _The hand is joined by a pair of eyes, dark and concerned, like a pleasant night sky after a warm day, gazing into my own frozen pair. "You seem distant somehow… are you sure that-?"

"Poetry," I gasp, the feeling of cold water being tipped over my head (Scarecrow's sudden and most unexpected shady presence), to be frank, I worry for the safety of the kind-hearted young woman who I had only just met, when Scarecrow is more active in my head. "How do you find writing it?" _But she is just the same. Another test subject. Just the same..._

_**What an odd way to phrase a question,**_ smirks a face in the back of my mind, _**you sound **_**almost**_** as if you're panicking… but only in here, don't you worry Johns.**_

_**

* * *

**_

"Poetry is easy!" I grin, venturing an open glance into Cra- Jonathan's keen blue eyes. I wander over and point to (yet another) poem which I'd saved from an old school lesson from years ago. "Take this one by Adrian Henri for example: Love is…" Stepping away from the tatty scrap of paper, Jonathan stands where I had been and quickly reads the poem in his head. Frowning in apparent puzzlement once he had finished, he states.

"I don't understand why you find this so fascinating."

Sighing and twisting a piece of hair round my index finger, I take a breath and comprise:

"Lie to me.

Lie to me and tell me it's all alright,

Lie to me as you turn out the light,

Lie to me as if you don't bite.

Lie to me.

Lie to me if you can't see my face,

Lie to me and flee this place,

Lie to me and find your next case.

Lie to me."

An expression passes onto Crane's face, one I can't place, and then disappears swiftly without a trace.

"That was one you just thought up." He says, more a statement than a question.

"Y-yeah," avoiding his eyes now (_sheash, he makes me nervous when he just… watches_), I scratch the side of my neck anxiously, waiting for **something** to happen.

What I don't expect however, is a hand to engulf my own and draw it away from my neck.

"Stop that." Jonathan murmurs, so close that I can feel his breath on my face. "It's unsightly to see yourself being marred in such a way." He leans even closer and I can see my own frightened reflection in his glacial eyes.

_This is wrong. _Crows my mind, the inner voice of reason, uncomfortable with being so close to a murderer.

"Close your eyes," he whispers, his voice somehow everywhere at once. Hesitantly I comply and tensely wait for whatever is coming next. "Don't be afraid, just stay still…"

Something smooth and warm touches my lips and I instinctively flinch.

"Wha-?" I gasp; a hand pulls in the back of my head, another around my waist. In the same moment, the coolness is back at my lips and somehow it's soft and hard at the same time, among a whole lot else. Confused, I open my eyes a fraction to see what-

_Crane. __**Jonathan Crane**__ is __**kissing**__ me. _

With a heart hammering at an unhealthily fast pace and a psychopathic man holding you closely against his body whilst kissing you… I think it's understandable to say that my common sense left for an extended break as the rest of me rejoices in the fact that I was rapidly falling for with the most fearful man I have ever met: Jonathan Crane.

I swear fireworks are going off in my head. Closing my eyes again, I miss the change in expression on the taller man's face as something more sinister takes control of the romantic scene…

"Keep your eyes shut, I just need to get something…" Crane speaks in an undertone as he steps away from me, his feet tapping on the floor as he walks away hurriedly.

In a daze, the fireworks and music in my mind (thinking along the lines of the New Year's kissing) seemingly become a reality for a moment as I hear footsteps returning, slower than before and stopping somewhere near me.

Something feels wrong.

"Jonathan?" I question out loud, wondering why my voice suddenly seems so small and pitiful. "A-are you okay?" With a shiver running through my slender frame, I force myself not to breathe and open my eyes.

Crane is wearing his mask.

The gas fills the air around us both, trapping me and obscuring my vision. _Thank goodness I held my breath. _I erratically think as my trembling body ventures blindly into where I thought was the bathroom (there's a lock on the door). Pushing open the door and slamming it shut behind me, I finally risk a breath. Not the bathroom; but the study will be good enough. Safe.

As if on queue, an almighty **BANG** strikes the door, a knife piecing the wood mere inches from where my head had been. The blade retracts swiftly (_how can Crane do this? He hardily looks strong enough to tie his own shoelaces… no offence intended…_) and the gleeful growl of _**'come out girl…'**_ from the over side, makes it seem very likely that it will be plunged through again.

Not wanting to risk being stabbed, I take a chance and rush to the other side of the long, dimly lit (even with the lights on; although the black-out curtains behind the desk at the back are still drawn) study, to drag the desk to the door and hopefully block-!

**Bang!** Clack. Tap. Tap. Tap, tap. Tap. Tap…

With shaking hands, sickly white on the desk, I close my eyes and stand straight for dignity's sake.

_I will not die cowering. _

"You never told **me** your name," reluctantly I shudder, his scratchy voice whines, smirking close to my right ear and not a sliver of breath to prove it's existence by…

"I-I already t-told y-you!" I manage to sound annoyed; if not a **tad** frightened as well.

Nothing happens for a second, until a pair of arms slide around my waist and holds me there, chuckling with a terrifying and most sinister intent.

"You don't get it, do you?" Jonathan doesn't sound annoyed, just amused thankfully. _Or is that __**worse**__?_ "You told precious Johnny something about yourself; not **me**." A sigh now, mock disappointment seeping into his words, "my, my… how do you so **easily** forget all those psychology lesson you had? Johnny used to teach psychology at university level before working as the top man at Arkham, you know. Hm… perhaps we could remind you of those lessons…?"

_No I didn't know and no thank you, I'll manage.__ Now let me __**go!**_ Is what I want to answer but for some reason I cannot speak. _Is this what happens before you die? Loss of control over simple actions?_

The Crane-but-not continues, "… and I would watch their faces **trying** to understand and make sense of Johnny's teaching, so eventually I got bored, took control and then people started to **understand**. Johns' just too uptight, you know? Not a real people person, like I am… so eventually he got bored of letting me have control of his job and moved off to Arkham where we quickly got promoted until we took over the place… had our own office and everything…"

_Does he ever shut up…?_ I twitch; although it turns into a horrified shudder when the possessed (?) Crane describes his early victims to the 'fear toxin'. _Maybe he intends for me to die from being talked to death? Or being overly creeped-out by his stories…_

"Are you scared?" He suddenly asks, I shudder again and this time managing a jerky nod of the wide-eyed head.

A piercing cackle fills the narrow room, echoing off the book lined walls. "**Honesty!** Honest aren't you! Oh, I **love** honest-!"

The obnoxiously loud noise is more than enough to snap my mind and body back into a workable state once more. _Although I would have liked to ask this 'other Crane' his name…never mind- survival first._

Jolting my arms up from the desk then backwards to the fabric of the detestable mask, I seize hold of it and rip it from the mad doctor's face.

As planned, the arms which were around my waist fall away and make for a grab at the mask, which I throw towards the door- for 'safe' keeping. Bending my knees low –for power- I spin upwards to face Crane, hurtling a punch into his near none-existent gut as I do so.

The effect is instantaneous. Falling hard, the dark haired man holds his midsection tightly, whilst trying to catch his breath with a gasping, gapping mouth.

_I may not be fond of violence; but here I felt __**forced**__ to use it. The least I can do now is make sure I don't have to use it again_. Cautiously moving from between Jonathan (_is he really the same man as before?_) and the desk, I feel something latch around my ankle: Crane's lanky hand.

Narrowing my eyes at it, I unable to prevent myself from feeling anger, something I hadn't felt in –what seems like- years.

"**You**…" I begin, my chest rapidly growing and shrinking as my breathing becomes almost erratic. "I thought I felt… **something**! towards you before! But you **tricked** me and tried to poison me. Again!" Shaking his hand loose, I crouch beside him, unknowingly repeating his actions from the first time we had met in the snow. "I thought that… I could trust you…" Misery and regret causes my lips to mime the words rather than speak them, tears welling in my eyes as Crane laughs, wheezing.

"You may **trust** Johns; but what about me?" After coughing for a few moments and clutching his stomach painfully, he continues, "you **punched** me, which isn't exactly what I'd call romantic; but then again," Crane licks his lips in a curious manner, "I'm not exactly your typical romantic either. Ah-ha," he sits up, leaning back on his palms and cocking his smirking face to the side, never moving his eyes once from my face. The overall effect? Quite creepy to be honest.

"I'm Scarecrow. Pleased to meet you; although only if you'll tell me one little secret…?"

"Lilly," I cautiously smile, sitting down cross-legged and feeling somewhat peculiar at introducing myself twice, in the same day, to the same body; but to different minds. However my curiosity had just been sparked, so there was defiantly no stopping now. "What secret, Scarecrow?" _Good job I haven't yet shared my real name- __**Scarecrow**__ would defiantly laugh..._

_

* * *

_

I honestly had not expected a reply, never mind the mixed feelings I got when Lilly said my name. _**It's like she's frightened…**_ I frown internally, _**but doesn't care.**_

"Scarecrow?" I look at her lips as she speaks, not a tremble, not anything. She could be talking to anyone, I realise, mystified and rapidly growing irritated, _**it's not like I just tried to poison her and attack her! It's not as though I have a knife just **_**begging **_**to be plunged into-!**_

A small, hand –the same one that hit me- waves in front of me. I jump.

Laughter, nothing like my own, dances in the room, then words spring from the brunette's lips.

"I didn't mean to frighten you! Sorry, 'crow; but this is pretty funny don't you think?" She glances meekly to me, silently fuming and only resisting from throttling her because of dear **Jonathan** who just loves her to bits…

_**You can have her in **_**bits**_**,**_ I growl, _**it'll be good for **_**both**_** of us.**_

_Don't you __**dare**__ touch her._ Snarls back Johns, fooled into thinking that **he** had any jurisdiction over what goes on now. I can play with the big words too; it's not just Johns who acts as the brains…

Purposely I reach out and caress Lilly's cheek, taking care not to touch her neck or I think my will not to kill the girl **immediately** would be shattered…

"**Never** say that you can frighten me. Ever. Again." I purr making sure that my voice comes out as dangerous as possible. Just in case she didn't quite get it, I retrieve the knife from where I had hidden it upon my person from before and waved it in front of her face. "You don't want to upset me and make Johns all upset and wonder what happened to your lovely face now, would you?"

_Scarecrow…_

_**Hush Johnny, isn't she wonderful?**_

_What?_

_**Johns you sound **_**anxious**_**, are you worried that **_**I**_** may like her too?**_ I chuckle darkly, _**well; we all can't have what we want in life can we…**_

_What do you mean by that? _Seriously, Johnny sounded as though someone had just told him Santa didn't exist and that it had been his dear old Granny all along who had been giving him coal.

_**What I mean is, can't we just**_** share**_** our little flower? You can-**_

_-have her? I think I will. I'm __**not**__ sharing. That would be immoral as well as-_

_**Immoral? **_I roar, enraged at the hypocritical word of my partner, **Immoral**_** was what you did when poisoning the whole of Gotham City for a quick buck! **_**Immoral**_** was letting **_**me**_** go untreated! **_**Immoral**_** is not stopping me right-!**_

"Now!" The word bursts through my lips as I plunge the knife down, down towards the wide eyed girl's beating heart…

* * *

_I didn't have time to react. Nothing would have changed-!_

_Wait, I'm __**not**__ dead?_ Opening my eyes one at a time and blinking once, twice, thrice, I can't help but stare.

The knife in Scarecrow's right hand had stabbed into Jonathan's left hand. _Jonathan, Scarecrow, Scarecrow, Jonathan…? Which one is it?_

Tentatively reaching forward with shaking hands, I take a deep, shuddering breath and swiftly slip the knife from its place in either hand and let it clatter onto the freezing stone floor.

The man yelps suddenly (_he only just noticed the pain?_) and rushes off to the kitchen to subdue the heavy bleeding.

"Jonathan…" sighing I hurry to follow him, leaving the mask and knife on the study floor. Forgotten for now.


	6. Bleeding Out

**Chapter Six: Bleeding Out**

"Yes Johns, I hear you- **keep the pressure on**!"

Flattening my back against the wall, Scarecrow (_wasn't __**Jonathan**__ in control a moment ago?_) makes no effort to turn around to face the shadowed, dove grey stone wall where I hide. All of his attention focusing upon his self-inflicted wound and in keeping Jonathan from reclaiming his body.

"I said, **shut up** Johnny!" Rage dripping from the malevolent hiss as he turns to angrily pace towards the fridge. "I know what I'm doing!" Slamming the fridge door shut a magnet shatters on the floor. "Doesn't she have any alcohol? What am I supposed to do for aesthetic-? Ask her? What an intriguing suggestion Johnny, maybe she'll be so helpful as to cause you to stab us in the hand- **again**! I'm telling you Johns, this Lilly is nothing but trouble, we'd be better off without- you're **not** going to hurt-! Johns, Johns… was there any **need** to say that out-loud? I can hear you fine up here." Scarecrow taps his temple and gives a quiet, haunting laugh, then pauses suddenly. "Unless…"

My body freezes and suddenly breathing doesn't seem like such a great idea, _he knows. He __**knows**__ I'm here! Oh, Jonathan please don't let him turn-!_

Even with my eyes closed, immersing myself in an unbreakable darkness; I **know** he can see me: my body does not tend to tremble like this for any other reason; except for when my nightmares emerge from the phantom groans of the house after testing myself against a horror movie or when past memories of being locked in **that** place by supposed 'friends' emerge…

"…you're trying to tell **somebody** that you don't mean to frighten them…?"

I bite my lip, suppressing my fear when dexterous fingers brush my cheek. _Wait for the opportunity, then run, hide... but this is my own home! What have I been reduced-!_

"What's wrong? You're frowning Lilly, something I said or maybe..." Opening my eyes by a fraction, I almost jump in shock at how close the –thankfully (?) unmasked- man is to my face. The blue of his eyes have the same effect of a sailor lost out to sea at this distance, with his even breathing over the lower half of my face a sort of pleasant sea-breeze in the tempest of emotion and thought vortex that echoes in my skull. "...something I'm doing?"

"You're just standing there, c-close, but that's nothing compared to what you did before." I whisper, glaring into the frozen abyss that is Scarecrow's (and Jonathan's) eyes. He laughs, moving away and pacing; yet still close enough to touch.

"Would you like me to try again? Bring out your innermost fears and demons? Take you back to the place you could not escape?" A hollow chuckle as he stops moving, watching my movements as I slowly edge towards the hallway door. "Let me ou-out! **Out!** I'm sca-scared!" Scarecrow's voice becomes higher, panicking. A moment later and I realise that he's quoting something I must have let slip as a result of the gas when we first met, mere hours ago in the snow... _Whoa, a lot has happened since then._ "Just let m-me go! L-l-let me leave! Plea-pl-please! Oh… no… let me go… let me out… let me… no...!" Scarecrow chuckles darkly again, his voice returning to its normal (_for Scarecrow that is, Crane's voice is... more refined, perhaps?_), hinting, reverberating tone. "Word for word, what you **begged** in the snow. What were you talking about, Lilly?"

The solitary house phone rings suddenly from its resting place in the joining living room, I glance at the old fashioned thing and Scarecrow shakes his darkly haired head.

_No. Don't pick up._

The ringing stops suddenly, an elderly woman's voice filling the room: Nana is on the answer phone.

"Oh, hello Cara!" My body tenses and my panic-stricken heart races even faster from the feeling of a lean hand wrapping itself around my throat, just resting, for now. "It's Nana, just checking how you are, obviously Granddad's given me the wrong time to call- hope it's not too early. Then again us Crows," the fingers press oh-so-gently into my shaking neck, only I can't move my pleading (pleading for Nana to stop talking, to stop revealing so much of my guarded self to Scarecrow) eyes from the phone to see the furious expression on Crane's face. "Are always late, hm? Luckily you're more of a late riser than a late comer," a laugh, followed almost immediately by a hacking cough, "sorry little Crow, I'm getting a bit of cold- terrible weather we're having... the usual. I wish you well; send us a postcard soon okay? Have a merry New Year if I don't hear from you before, you hear that Cara Crow? Make sure you find yourself a nice young man and go out dancing! Love you, won't let your Granddad on and bore you; he loves you too though! Good-bye, little Crow!" The phone beeps once and falls silent.

Oh, bugger. I close my eyes, reopening them to risk a glance at Crane... at Scarecrow to decipher his next move. The malice I find in his blue eyes however, holds me dumb.

"So, **Cara**," Scarecrow's hand is joined by his other as he squeezes the life from me, my hands try to prise his from their lethal grasp only to find that the doctor is in fact stronger; odd, seeing as he is still bleeding from one hand and recovering from his previous injuries... not to mention his spindly physique.

"L-let go!" I hiss, instantly wishing that I hadn't: now there is even less air left in my failing body. In response, the man's eyes narrow and harden into hailstones, assailing me with fear for both my life and what he is about to do to it.

"'Let go'?" He snorts. "**Don't** make me laugh. Even **Johns** is fuming at your deception. We," the fingers dig into my skin deeper than I thought possible for a person to feel and yet survive, before tossing me –gasping- to the floor, " were honest with you. We, **I** may have been brutally so; yet..." scrambling to my feet, I scan the face of my assailant: bitter, amused, enraged... _what a combination to have on a smirking, psychopathic, physically superior (in the terms of strength, however that works out...) and rapidly advancing man._ "...Johns must have seemed so gentle, so... wonderful, when he kissed you. And I would know. What would **really** be the icing on our hypothetical cake would be if that was your first kiss... was it, **little Crow**?"

Cringing from the mockery of my childhood nickname (although most of my friends, and enemies admittedly, would just stick to Crow), I quickly weigh up my chances and flee from the room, down the –suddenly very long- corridor towards the front door. Towards freedom.

Practically slamming into the said thick, light coloured wooden door, my trembling fingers are working the chain lock just as a hand throws me to the ground by my loose, chocolate hair.

Hitting the ground hard on my side, I groan in pain and instinctively curl into a ball whilst my mind screams for me to get up and fight, or to run and call the police- _this man, this Scarecrow is __**dangerous**__! Why do I just realise it __**now**__ after being gassed __**twice**__?_

"Get up." Scarecrow's voice sounds more softened, still sounding livid; yet less... threatening perhaps? More refined? **Slightly** less frightening?

"J-Jonathan?" _**Ouch.**__ My throat feels... well, like I've just been throttled. Funny how that works..._ "I'm sor-"

"Sorry? I'm not surprised that you lied about your name; although I am surprised to see that you still lied even after I... enticed you otherwise."

Still clutching my side painfully (_damn these stone floors..._) I lean against one of the cool walls, hearing the crumple of paper as my back presses into a print off of a poem: The Raven, Edgar Allan Poe, if I recall correctly. Rage licks my thoughts: _'enticed'? I gave... or let this man __**steal**__ my first kiss for –what? - the pleasure of letting him be sure that whatever information I give him is __**reliable**__? Turns out Scarecrow doesn't really need brains after all. He needs __**tact**__. _The sound of a slap hits me before I realise that I have –in fact- struck Crane.

"I was expecting as much," he sounds bored and –most infuriatingly- unflustered.

Another slap.

"Then that was your **first** kiss then I take it?" Crane keeps his eyes locked with mine, evaluating the unproven glare he finds there and the quivering hand I have raised, urgently resisting the burning desire to strike his angular face once more.

"Leave." I hiss; yet the word falls too quiet to hold much of the demanding tone which I am forcing into my voice.

"But I'm **bleeding**, Cara," Holding up his bloody hand to further illustrate his point and to play to my sensitive nature, Jonathan raises his eyebrows slightly.

* * *

"I don't care. Don't say my name, just... go." I swallow; my gaze unwillingly fixated upon the bleeding palm which he had impaled himself to save my life... then almost strangled me to death with afterwards... _Let him stay? Jonathan is- Oh who am I kidding! A murderer, a terrorising __**nightmare**__ who loves fear, a, a... handsome and intelligent... oh frack no! Isabelle is seriously rubbing off on me... damn only (and bloody brilliant) friend in the entire country..._

I know that I have persuaded Miss Crow once she starts to stare at my injury (which is –thankfully- far worse than it looks), unconsciously scratching her bruising neck.

_**Doesn't she feel it?**_Quips Scarecrow, glowering at the movement._** Maybe you should point it out Johnny- make her fear what you can do. Imagine every time she sees her reflection now: a constant reminder...**_

_Hush Scarecrow, I need control now._

_**... and just to think that we were **_**sharing**_** control, merging, as we heard her real name being spoken by her dear old Granny... do you think her Granny has the same values as our own-?**_

_Shut. Up._Unbidden, **unwanted**, my back prickles.

_**Do you remember the way she would sing before leaving us in that wreck of a church? **_Unconsciously I wince as the flashbacks assault my mind, piercing, cutting... like the beaks that had marred my back when I was but a boy. _**Oh don't be upset Johnny, I'm playing with you that's all, shh, shh, I'll leave you be for now with our **_**harmless**_** and anxious Crow. There we go, just like the old days...**_

A chill passes down my spine, without a trace upon my exterior however, when Scarecrow's soothing tone recedes into the darkest corners of my mind. I have not heard from that side of my 'companion' in a long time.

Feeling eyes skirting my face, I take a quick look down at the frowning source, still apparently lost in her own thoughts.

"Miss Crow?" I ask, frowning awkwardly myself in an attempt to remember how bedside manner is supposed to sound, look and-

_**-feel? **_Smirks Scarecrow, already returning to his 'normal' snide self. With a sigh, my senses automatically try to zone out of listening to his comments, concentrating on the woman in front of me.

"I s-suppose you can stay," at this a minute smile pulls at my lips and I can feel Scarecrow's chuckling vibrating eerily through my head at the prospect, "provided that don't try to kill, gas or 'entice' me or anyone who may be come here. A-although I only really know one person who may come here... a friend, who you will **not** harm or so help me I'll cut off your fingers and force them down your throat to see what kind of noises you'll make then." As if to reinforce what was just said, the brunette glares into my cool, level expression (the eyes more specifically) in an attempt to threaten me.

_**Feisty little Crow isn't she?**_Scarecrow purrs, enjoying the prospect of a more interesting, more complex toy.

_She feels threat__ened, what more can you expect? _I retort, mentally taking note of Crow's fierce loyalty. _Did her parents get a divorce? Perhaps a betrayal?_ I cannot help but wonder about the young woman's sudden change in demeanour.

Scarecrow laughs. _**Perhaps a decent glare? You should really give her lessons...**_

"Is that so?" Closing the distance between us both in a single stride, I lean on my palms either side of Miss Crow's (_**you seem to like calling her that, any particular reason or do you want a **_**sidekick?**) head and adjust myself to make our contrasting –dark versus light- eyes level.

"Yes, h-hurt me if you **must**; just not my friends." _A compromise? Self sacrifice? Interesting._

_**Foolish more like...**_

"It's not my intention to hurt-" I begin steadily, only to cause a sudden spark of emotions across the young woman's face.

"- and that's why **you** strangled me? Or should I say Scarecrow?" The accusation cuts over my unfinished sentence with a strange mixture of anger, fascination... fear.

I shiver with excitement, almost anticipating what I **could** say next to increase Miss Crow's increase of the latter emotion. The words that had sprung so readily from her lips from being under the influence of the toxin, begging to be let out... claustrophobia perhaps? Why so much fury at being deceived into a simple kiss? Had something happened in her childhood to make her fear being close to someone, of being touched?

The back of my knuckles caress the side of Miss Crow's cheek. She flinches. _Bingo._

"W-why don't I go make s-some breakfast? Do y-you like-?"

"Don't change the subject. I'm concentrating." Some subjects do this: ramble when frightened. _Now that... that annoys me..._

_**Although **__**food does sounds good right now Johns- listen to your body every once in a while! And **_**I**_** just so happen to be **_**starving**_**!**_

_Good, _I growl back, _perhaps now you'll let me focus and be quiet._

_**Believe me, I would –**__**you're not the only one who's itching to discover gentle Crow's most intimate fears- but right now, we appear to be having trouble standing even. Look! We're leaning all over our little Crow- how's she supposed to be able to fly with a mean old Scarecrow hanging off her?**_

Fading my vision outwards back to my... situation, I growl at the sudden aching pain within my stomach, as well as the small hands balled into the front of my worn suit keeping me from falling completely upon the trembling woman. As Miss Crow meets my sharp glare, Scarecrow chuckles at her flinching.

"C-can you stand?"

"Apparently not," I snap, shifting my weight to- _bad idea_. The dark slate soars towards me at an alarming pace as I brace myself for a fall; my limbs however, are too sluggish, strangely too agonising to move in time.

A pair of hands do not grab me; instead something hits the bitterly cold floor well before I do and my body lands awkwardly on top of the –wheezing- body? _I may have just landed-_

_**-upon a certain**__** young lady-**_

_-who may have just thrown herself to the ground __to-_

_**-cushion our fall; although-**_

"-why not just use your hands; rather than your body?" Rapid, shallow gasping is my only answer, Miss Crow had obviously been winded during the ordeal. With a long, drawn out sigh, the urge of my childhood mannerisms rises: help the woman, 'be a gentleman', as Granny would tell me...

My back prickles sharply.

"Breathe deeply, slower, **slower**..."

Once she is breathing regularly (if not a tad painfully) again, we both move to stand, with me as the first one at full height; despite the ache in my stomach. The battered Miss Crow almost fell over then, if not for my (_**our,**_ corrects Scarecrow) swift reaction of looping an arm under one of her outstretched arms and pulling sharply upwards to force the woman back to her feet. _Thank goodness for adrenaline's added power..._

"Th-thanks," the shorter woman pulls from my grasp then begins skulking jerkily down the corridor to the kitchen, I follow with aching steps: the thugs must have done more damage than I had previously thought. "As for before when I made myself a human cushion..." Unable to stop myself, a small smile works its way onto my face at her wording, "well, I have little strength as you, discovered before," it is Scarecrow's turn to grin this time, well in safety of my mind however. "So –knowing that I would be unable to catch you- did the next best thing and softened your fall."

_Odd, most odd indeed: help the man who may have been about to kill you? What could this girl even hope to gain from all of this...? Doesn't appear to be religious at all, that rules out 'because the man above tells us to' or 'I need this for my Karma'... _

We reach the kitchen eventually and immediately Cara gets to work with reaching up into cupboards, dragging out various raw ingredients for some unknown dish. For learning purposes (_**just keep telling yourself that Johnny, **_Scarecrow chortles, receding swiftly to the corners of my exhausted mind; strangely not taking advantage of our weakened state) I may have watched her make... whatever it is which she is cooking-up; but presently my body is failing my demands and needs nothing more than a couch to-

_**Birdy**__** doesn't have a couch, remember Johnny, she only has two chairs in the living room by that tiny, excuse of a table.**_

_Oh for the love of-!_

**Darkness.** I hope my passing out (_Jonathan Crane does not __**faint!**_) does not persist.

* * *

Although the sound of a body thudding to the floor should be somewhat the 'norm' for me now; I still jump, sending yet more tremors of pain throughout my battered body.

_Not now! _Squeezing my eyes tightly shut and blinking away the automated tears, I somehow manage to; not ignore, but rather accept the pain.

_Finish preparation, wang the hotpot in the oven, get Crane off the floor..._ something in my neck throbs excruciatingly as I swallow, _or maybe just give him a blanket? _

Resuming the cutting of the beef (Jonathan had better not be a veggie...) a little voice in my head ponders over the sanity of cooking for the man who just had me against the wall **by my neck** and has a rather... different occupation and history, part of which is apparently on the news and-

Pausing in sliding the meat into the pot, I almost glance back at the unconscious man in a nervous paranoia. **Almost,** I say, meaning that **if** I had moved to look at Jonathan, pure agony in my neck would have been the result.

_Put this into the oven, pots in the dishwasher, find a blanket for Crane, watch the news for reports on his story. Got it._

...

"This is it." The remote is steady in my hand, purposely I am trying not to think of what would happen if Jonathan wakes up (heaven help me if Scarecrow chooses to make another appearance), to see me watching something which he/they did not want me to see...

Settling myself gently; albeit awkwardly on my monster of a bed, I listen for a moment for any signs that Crane may be prowling the apartment.

Outside the closed window and its velvet green curtains, there is the sound of traffic. Nothing like the lullabies of bird song from home; the baffle of cars: so metallic, so droning, so... so soothing...

The remote falls from my grasp just as I surrender to sleep.f

_Thank goodness the oven's on low..._


	7. Dealing with company

**Chapter Seven: Dealing with company**

_**Night terror.**_ My mind says when I find myself awake with my body lying frozen under the thick duvet. Heart hammering under the purple woollen tank top I'm wearing: I had fallen asleep fully clothed and tucked up snugly in bed. _Much too hot..._ I wriggle out of the bed and carefully sit up- my entire body is aching spectacularly, despite the brief rest.

7:36 a.m. the clock hanging on the opposite wall reads._ Still too early for me to be awake..._

Gingerly, I raise my wrists: one of them (the left) is bruised, black and purple marks in the vivid shape of long fingers.

_From when Crane was threatening me with the canister..._ unwillingly, my eyes leave the savage markings and flicker to a point just beyond the foot of the bed. _Just over there, that's where we were._

A dull throbbing of pain shoots through my neck as I force myself to sit up, pushing back the cushions and bloodstained duvet out of my way, the blood (which I had seen before, but not really recognising it in my sleepy state) makes a sudden, bold statement in my head.

"Oh-!" Kicking away the remainder of the once white duvet, now covered in Crane's blood; I shiver once, burying my head in my arms and pulling my legs into my heaving chest.

"Breath Cara, just breath... he's not going to hurt you, h-he's still sleeping... it's okay, it's okay..." A nervous laugh breaks through then, a terrible thought worming its way into my skull.

_He is going to kill me. Well done for helping the man who killed all those thugs, those __**people**__, without a second thought! Who gassed you twice, bruised and strangled you. Don't forget the searching of your private documents, mind and almost your mou-! _One vigorous shake of the head later and the feeling of Crane's lips against mine fades._ Oh, stop thinking so pessimistically! Control yourself... I can do this... get up, face the unknown and if that's not enough, at least don't let that hotpot go to ruin and burn the place down, hm?_

Drawing a shuddering breath, I slowly raise my face. And scream.

Jonathan's hand is over my mouth before I can intensify the scream to match what I'm feeling right now: raw terror.

_Tell me this is a nightmare! I can't take much more of him or that __**gas**__._

"Hush," reaching towards the bedside table, a slim, black notebook (_**my**__ dream book_) is retrieved and the 'doctor' peers at it before reading from it with that stitched, manic grin fixed upon his masked face: "night terror count, seven, make that eight now should we, Miss Crow?" Tittering, Crane snaps shut the small book, tossing it over his shoulder without a second glance. "That was just for this week, correct?" Too terrified to move, I can only just manage to suppress the whimper building in my throat when the killer's eyes ghost even closer to my own. The burlap of the mask distorts the man's voice into nightmarish tones which scrape any rational thought from my mind. "But today is **Wednesday**, Miss Crow. You must be waking up often for this number of night terrors to occur in such a short space of time..." Closer still, the mask brushes my nose whilst the lanky hand covering my mouth slips away, "what drove you to this point? Tell me. Are you claustrophobic? Is that why you begged to be 'let out'? Did someone make you so hesitant to having so little space between yourself and others that you cringe –or freeze as you do now- when someone is so close? Tell me," Crane's voice drops to a whisper, "I can make the nightmares stop, if you tell me..."

_Liar._

"L-liar," I bite my lip, starring back at the glacial eyes of Scarecrow, Crane?

_Oh what the frack have you done? He's defiantly going to kill me now, or worse, bend and twist my mind up until-!_

"I am glad to see you didn't fall for that, little Crow." The mask recedes back a more comfortable distance, just as I notice that Crane, Scarecrow (?) has dragged one of my two carved oak chairs (from the living room) into my bedroom, sitting upon it like a throne.

_Here comes the king of Oz, _I smirk, instantly regretting it when the imposing man's eyes gleam suddenly as he observes my silent change in expression.

"Something funny?" He rasps threateningly through the burlap, cocking his crudely stitched face to the side inquisitively, trying to catch me out in our... game.

I shake my head, sleep and panic playing havoc with my battered self confidence for having such a devious, frightening man in my home.

"N-no...?"

"That's a question, Miss Crow, you can't answer a question with a question."

"Yes you c-can," _never had a philosophical debate Crane?_

"No, Crow," leaning forwards in his chair Crane (_or is this Scarecrow trying to trick me with 'Miss Crow'?_) growls lowly, "you cannot."

"C-Crane," stretching out my legs from my chest to dangle them off the bed, I force myself to meet the frozen pools that are the doctor's penetrating eyes, "you can stand? H-how-?"

"A combination of **will** and attending to basic needs, mainly food," he raises a hand in a questioning, offhand manner, leaving our argument... for now, "what was that in the oven? Stew or old compost?" Crane laughs, a hollow sound in the noiseless room.

_Keep calm,_ my fists twitch for a moment –as if to clench- before relaxing again in my lap. _Just take it... he's trying to provoke you, a __**stimulus**__, Crane's a doctor- it's what he does._

"The curry your neighbour left –Martha isn't it? - before leaving for Vegas with what sounds like the rest of the tenants here, was much more appetizing." The hand drops and I shift uncomfortably perching on the edge of the bed. "What no rebuttal, Miss Crow?"

"My cooking isn't that bad,"

"I beg to differ."

Feeling oddly hurt and immature, I pull myself to my feet in order to slip past Crane and leave the room: the scorn in his voice cutting more-so than the bitter wind outside, the simple rudeness of his comment after I'd committed myself to –temporally at least- housing the doctor...

I only get so far past the seated villain.

Crane hooks his fingers around my right wrist, not enough to bruise it like my left, but with enough force to remind me that such an act would be well within his capabilities. I turn –expecting to see him standing at full height- instead the masked man is still sitting, just as before, with his eyes fixed upon where our skin meets.

"Jonathan?" My voice is a whisper and that whisper a breath: the stillness and tension stifling in the soft lightening.

Stare. Crane does not move an inch; luckily this means that Scarecrow doesn't either.

With a swift tug against his hold, I feel his grip slacken on my wrist momentarily before the pressure increases threateningly.

"Are there many people still in this block?" Crane asks, manipulating the angle of my wrist so that I'm both facing him at his level and in a reasonable amount of pain. "Anyone **not** in Vegas on the corporate holiday...?"

"A-about," _Think! There's no one else here but that guy two floors above who's not on that trip... what's his name... Edward? Ewan? _The pressure increases slowly, ominously, tauntingly. "Two floors above, one man, I-I think he lives by himself, came down once to introduce himself... quite nice, just –o-ouch! Stop! - a tad arrogant perhaps? Please don't hurt him! He w-won't even know you're here!"

Using my wrist as a lever, Crane pulls himself up, intimidating and towering over me: which is the point I'm sure.

"That's a risk I cannot afford to take," the mask fills my vision as the terrible sound of footsteps fill the room. Advancing and still squeezing my wrist.

"Please don't kill him," my mouth is dry, words falling over the other clumsily trying to halt the advance and save the nameless man two floors above. _What did Crane say before... something about-? _"An alibi! Before you told me that you need an alibi! I- we could pretend to..."

The door leading out of the bedroom interrupts my trail of thought, especially when Crane's other hand slips deftly into his bloodstained suit, drawing out an all too familiar canister...

"Hmm," cocking his burlap face to one side, Crane pauses; yet keeps his icy eyes studying–as he appears to consider- the anomalous test subject, the freak who **assisted** the **murderer** in his recovery, shivering, cowering, frightened and pressing back, desperately feeling for the door handle, in the honey wood door behind.

"J-Jonathan, please, l-let me go- y-you're h-hurting m-me," the words leave me in a pleading whisper. Something deep within in is sickened by the desperation in my voice and my powerless position. _What name does it go by again? Oh, yes... __**Pride**__._

The hand releases my wrist. Glancing first at Crane-

"Crane?" The nozzle of the gas canister is obscuring the majority of my vision.

_**Oh. Bugger.**_

"There is no Crane, **only Scarecrow!**"

"Wait! P-please!" The nozzle is compressed, oh-so slowly, (unless the adrenalin being pumped into my system is messing with my perception of time...) Cr- **Scarecrow's** glacial eyes shimmer, more alive than I have ever seen them (or been able to remember). There's not even time for me to draw a breath to hold; never mind to turn and open the door I'm undoubtedly pressing myself into in an effort to create some space between us. I don't like strangers touching me.

Keeping eye contact with Scarecrow is all I can do without resorting to more senseless violence.

Fear fills the air, bitter on my tongue and burning in my lungs.

_Ghouls and screaming and a sealed door and more chains shaking._

_Oh help me please: my reality's quaking._

_

* * *

_

_**To be fair I'm not using anything as concentrated as I **_**should**_** be,**_ I wander towards the bed and sit myself on the edge, observing the young woman's reaction to my drug.

_She is not screaming this time, Scarecrow._

_**Well done Johnny.**_ I growl sarcastically at the smug bastard, habitually searching our suit for a more powerful dosage. _**Don't you worry Johns, I'll make her scream again, and such a pity there's none of that picturesque snow this time. Oh, but just you wait...**_

Johnny smirks, something's wrong: Johnny doesn't want our little Crow broken (yet, until we're finished analysing her at least), the gash in our hand is proof of that; but why is he smirking...?

Sensing my puzzlement, Johnny laughs darkly, all the while resisting my smothering control.

_Is this something to do with the fact that I can make Miss Crow scream __**with terror**__–even without the toxin- and back in the snow all you could do was make her mumble, cry and scream once from mere __**shock?**_

_**When did **_**you**_**-?**_

Instead of a verbal response, Johns makes use of my vivid way of telling events: memories.

I chuckle, _**Johnny-boy, you might just be catching on.**_

_**

* * *

**_

_The bedroom door had been left slightly ajar –probably unintentionally- making the invitation to 'check' on the 'host' concrete._

_Slipping into the dim room, I first notice that the news is on, then that Miss Crow is asleep and finally that there's a notebook on the bedside table which I hadn't seen before. Moving lithely towards the television, I fail to find the off switch, so I pull out the cable at the back with slightly shaking hands. Shaking with fury, I hasten to add: hadn't I told that lying woman not to watch the news? Dragging a hand down my face, two things become clear to me._

_One: I need a shave._

_Two: Miss Crow needs to understand that she is not a host to me right now, but a __**host**__age and a __**subject**__._

_As just another shadow in the room, I find it almost too easy to move about silently. Picking up the slim black notebook, I squint at the petite, sin black ink words, rendered illiterate in the darkness of the room. With a noise of minor frustration, I reach into my blood-stained suit for my compact torch (usually used for checking test subjects' eyes; although handy for things such as this), something rough and burlap meets my fingertips somewhat eagerly. _

_Of course, what else could make Cara __**Crow**__ more nervous than a __**Scarecrow? **__Almost chuckling at fate's twisted humour, I deftly pull the mask on and find the torch soon after. Flicking it on and casting its piercing gaze over the long, curling notes, I shake my head and chuckle: a dream diary. _

_Miss Crow does not tend to enjoy a peaceful night sleep, does she? _

_Flipping through the recounts of nightmares and the sparse few average dreams, I reach the back of the notebook where a neat tally chart had been drawn up in accordance to weeks and the number of-_

_The soft rustle of sheets and a short series of quiet gasps from the bed distracts me enough to turn out the torch._

_-night terrors._

_I slink into a darker shadow and remain still, waiting for the opportune moment to strike. I did warn the girl- do not watch the news, I cannot be much clearer than that... Night terrors. I can use this to my advantage. Miss Crow will be far more sensitive to my... influence now. _

"_Breath Cara, just breath... he's not going to hurt you, h-he's still sleeping... it's okay, it's okay..." grinning widely, I take the moment to move, the young woman's nervous laugh masking what minuscule noise my shoes would makes against the luxuriant, incredibly muffling red carpet._

_Under the mask my grin becomes painfully blissful as Crow shudders and cautiously looks up._

_She screams. Each millisecond rising in pitch and horror as I suspend the beautiful moment: I had made Miss Crow scream where the (admittedly weak dosage of) my toxin had failed._

_I could scream with her._

_Clamping a hand over the brunette's open mouth, I pull myself together, focusing on Control now. Fear and Control. The two greatest powers there are; although the latter I still need to perfect._

"_Hush..." I reach for the notebook again not needing the torch this time, for I can recall all I need to recite. "Night terror count, seven, make that eight now should we, Miss Crow...?"_

_

* * *

_

_**That being the **_**one**_** scream against so many others **_**I**_** have been the root of.**_

_And yet you sound, oh what word would __**you**__ use, __**pissed-off**__? _I retort sarcastically.

_**Give me back control! **_Scarecrow spits, pounding his fists against the restraints in my mind. _**I'm the one who makes her writhe and scream! I am the only one who can-!**_

_Possessive aren't we?_

_**Oh, but she's **_**yours**_** really.**_

This –naturally- throws me, the antidote I had literally just injected into the said female's delicately bruised neck almost slipping from my hand.

_What did you say? _I breathe, hardily daring to believe what my alter-ego had just declared. _'Mine really'? What makes you think-?_

_**I hate to disappoint you Johnny; but I thought you might have realised it already... 'Good cop, bad cop'? 'Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde'? Doctor Johnny Crane and the Master of Fear, Scarecrow? Remind you of something? **_

_You mean to suggest that Miss Crow-_

_**-and her incurable 'helpful' nature-**_

_-looks towards you as the enemy and me as the... hero?_

_**Dead on target, Johnny. Boy, I'd think you were a mind reader, if I didn't know better!**_

_Shut up. _I snarl, frustrated at my incompetence.

Scarecrow sighs, _**I wouldn't call it **_**that**_** Johns- you're much too hard on yourself. We both know that this' just a theory and without much chance of it being correct either: we've both done some brutal things to our little Crow. We shouldn't keep this up you know, the poor bird's frightened enough already, so maybe now we should lie low, recover, then get our goons back and make a few 'business deals'...**_

_What happened to your rage? I know you; you never let something like this go._

_**Ah-ah, **_chides Scarecrow,_** some**_**one; **_**not some**_**thing.**_** I'm guessing we're finally starting to brush off on each other, what do you think Johns?**_

_We are __**nothing**__ alike, Scarecrow. _I warn, feeling like I had said this before... far too many times for comfort._ All that binds is our fascination for fear._

_**And for strange birds... **_Scarecrow pulls his stitched mouth upwards, a smile; albeit perverse and deformed. _**Or, should we say, just the one, little crow.**_

_**

* * *

**_

A train had defiantly rolled over me, with excruciating slowness, whilst chainsaws were being used to clean my ears; yet somehow had been pushed into my brain and left there whilst my head was repeatedly slammed in an oven on full heat.

In other words, I have a headache. A **very** **bad **headache.

Rolling onto my side, I feel the thick fur of the carpet beneath me and a blanket wrapped around my legs.

_Must've had an awful nightmare to end up tangled like this..._

"You are finally awake I see." A cool voice states, making my eyes water at the sound.

_It's just a headache, I can take this._

"W-what happened?" My desert-like throat make me rasp and cough violently; although the blurred figure on the edge of the bed remains composed, holding out what may be my –much needed- glasses. "Thanks," I croak again, folding out the navy frames and pushing them up my nose when another wave of coughing wracks through me.

"Scarecrow gassed you soon after I lost control when I saw the news playing on your TV." No emotion touches Crane's words, an apology? None existent. Even his angular (perhaps I'm suffering from a side effect _–lack of rational thinking-_ since I don't even try to correct myself this time...) features are frozen in a mask of callousness. Body language? _Urgh, it's too early for evaluation... everything's too bloody __**sore**__! _A half-hearted groan falls from my lips. _At least he's straight to the point..._

"I fell asleep before I could watch it, I s-swear..." My head throbs suddenly as the room turns black.

"**Again**, Miss Crow?" Crane sounds disappointed.

...

When I come to again, I'm on a leather sofa; only...

"I don't have a sofa." I mumble contently, snuggling further down into the aged leather, smiling at the pleasant scent. There's my summer duvet lying over me, a few fluffy grey towels as well. Funny, I remember something else grey... a bloodstained suit?

"**Crane!**" Sliding off the four-seater, I run an anxious hand through my ruffled hair, feeling far better now; yet unless my heart slows down...

"You like it?" His voice purrs from an inch behind me. "I bought it online, had it delivered right to the door... I used your credit card if you don't mind, it was only $400." I turn, wide-eyed at not only the amount of my money he's spent; but also at the length of time I must have been unconscious for. "Oh yes, I'm your 'lover' according to the gent a next door but one, poor man had to come home early from Vegas, a death in the family. You **did** agree to be my alibi did you not?" A mean, hard smile reaches Crane's mouth; his wintery eyes glaring gentle threats.

_This is all too confusing..._

"Y-yes..." I start, alarmed; but not wanting to panic and promptly fall into some sort of trap. "But th-then you gassed me. A-again." Neither of us moves, but the ice in the taller man's gaze makes me wish for the distance between us to magically increase without any more backing away on my part.

"Your stutter is beginning to annoy me."

"Your gas does more than that to me," the effort of holding my words together without a mistake is gratifying, if not oddly difficult... _Funny, I had never stuttered before meeting Crane... just another reason why helping him is a terrible idea. Although he would have died if I'd left him in the snow- just like his victims. What a moral mess..._

"I know," his eyes bore into mine for a moment too long, before turning that gaze to my body. "Don't flatter yourself; I am checking your injuries."

With the blush still hot in my cheeks, I ask about how long I was out for.

Crane replies two days, almost three: one for each 'weak' dosage of the fear gas I had been exposed to and some extra time for the physical injuries.

"... what I cannot fathom," Crane continues, once declaring my pupil dilatation as 'satisfactory', "is why you never make a sound much louder than a mumble whilst under the effects of my toxin. Do you suffer from ligyrophobia?"

I shake my head, knowing that the prudent man will want a far more detailed answer. _Typical professor-y expectations..._

"Should I be afraid of loud noises? I actually like the sound of fireworks, so there goes that theory." Crane's icy eyes narrow as his hypothesis is made void, shivering briefly; albeit violently, from the poisonous expression upon his face, I continue. "As for why I'm so quiet with your toxin in my system... s-screaming wouldn't do anyone much good in a dangerous situation, it might even draw attention to yourself where none had been before," a cold trickle of unease runs down my spine, "what's one more scream to a dozen others anyway?"

A perplexed look touches the doctor's eyes, before freezing-over again into the deep, icy pools of startling blue which I can feel myself becoming no more endurable of.

"Explain."

"It's what your toxin makes me see," I wring my hands together, clumsy with fear and clammy to the other's touch, "Please; I don't want to talk about it." _Appealing to Crane's better nature might work... if he has one._

"Yes you do. Why else would you bring it up?" He scoffs, raising his eyebrows expectantly.

"To warn you that I **don't want to talk about it.**"

"And what if **I** want you to talk about it?"A venomous expression grows on Crane's face, intensifying when I insist on holding my ground. _Obviously someone isn't used to being denied..._

"Tough luck. I'm not." With that, I turn on my heel, my bare heel. _He must've taken off my shoes (and socks) how __**nice**__ of him..._

Glancing down, the comforting smoothness of my sin black nightdress brushes my thigh and the thin straps crease against my shoulder blades as my spine arches in shock.

Someone (_three guesses who!_) had undressed me in my sleep-! Worryingly I drag my nails down the side of my bruised neck, wincing as a dull ache pulses through the spot.

My nails had been cut.

"Crane-!" I spin to face the offending man, spitting his name in as much distaste I can physically muster, all the while strongly resisting the urge to scream at him (_a terrible idea as he would probably enjoy that, and Scarecrow, _I shiver at the sound of his name in my mind, _might come out to play again..._) or beat him with a –preferably heavy- book. _Hey, it had worked in university!_

"Yes?" Even having the will to further humiliate me and to appear so amused as he does so, Crane coolly continues, his arrogance as plain as day in his level voice. "If this is about your nails, Miss Crow, I am **awfully** sorry. You were attempting to gouge out your neck at one point, if I had not proceeded to-"

"Not my nails, Crane!" I hiss, poking a blunt finger at my risqué change of clothes and visibly shaking from... Anger? Disgust? Fear? "**This.** I only wear things like this in summer. When it's hot. Not in bloody winter!"

Panting quietly with agitation, I feel my hands tense, then shake suddenly as Jonathan frowns in apparent confusion.

"You mean to say that I... dressed you incorrectly?"

I snap.

Pounding my small (D_amn-it! Why did I have to stop growing...?_) fists against his now only faintly bloodstained suited chest, my thoughts explode verbally in frenzy of uncertainty and distinct discomfort, both hidden below a mask of rage.

"Bastard! You absolute, utter **bastard!** Why did you do this? Any of this? I helped you and all you keep doing is making my life hell! What for? Can't you just accept that I want to help you and that maybe I deserve a little respect for doing so? Yeah, I am talking to you **too**, Scarecrow. So whose idea was this anyway, hm? Or was it a **shared** plan? Answer me!"

Having little effect on the doctor, my hands are engulfed and pulled away from my body, leaving me feeling exposed and terribly bare. A ribbon of oak hair had caught in my glasses in the one-sided fray, something which Crane focuses upon before asserting eye contact with my darker, now nervous eyes.

"Consider that," he faintly nods once at the lustre of the silken garment, without moving his eyes from mine; although I notice his mouth twitch upwards briefly. "Payback for doing the same to me."

Before I can protest –'that was only you're shirt!'- a gentle 'hush,' silences me.

"I left on the... more obscure items of clothing for the sake of modesty." Jonathan narrows his eyes, daring me to contradict him; having a gut feeling that Jonathan is not **that** kind of risk, I murmur a word of uncomfortable appreciation before he continues.

"Now as for your other questions..."

* * *

_**You're not honestly going to answer her are you?**_ Scarecrow raises an eyebrow, drumming his wiry fingers against the air. A hollow rapping noise fills the darkness around him; despite the fingers drumming on nothing more than the said air. _**Little Crow was **_**panicking**_** Johns, you don't need to answer someone when they panic... so why not let me come out to play? She was talking to me too... **_He mutters, staring at the devious night wear, quite unable to stop smirking despite his agitation.

_No, you will stay out of this: you have made things difficult enough already,_ growling I swiftly continue answering Miss Crow's flustered questions, ignoring the irritated mutters from Scarecrow.

"I apologize for any 'hell' which I have brought into your life, Miss Crow." Savouring the astounded expression on Cara's (_**o-h, **_**Cara**_** now is it, **_**Jonathan**_**...?**_) face for a moment, I eventually let go of her hands, trusting that her curiosity for my statement and the implication of me giving her an explanation will keep her-

_**-with us?**_

"-close." I reply without much care for my companion, knowing that the word will have another meaning entirely to the shivering young woman in front of me with her bruised, supple arms wrapping around her body, cold from more dangerous things than just the look I send her.

"I-it's n-not my intension to go a-anywhere until you explain," Miss Crow's voice shakes slightly, causing Scarecrow to hoot with the force of his laughter, rattling noisily within my head and demanding to be let out. This is why I cannot abide people who stutter- Scarecrow always wants to 'cure' them... admittedly I also feel the need to find what makes them 'tick'. "Good," I sigh, the effort of keeping Scarecrow under control (_**and**_ **yourself**_** you mean, we're practically the same, Johns!**_) taxing me, "because I do not wish to waste anymore toxin."

"Waste?" Repeats Miss Crow, cocking her head with narrowing eyes, apparently expecting me to take back my choice of words.

"I tend to not make a habit of repeating myself, Miss Crow." I threaten, almost joining in with the chuckle in my mind when the young woman cannot hold against my gaze, looking away and moving as if to step back; yet stops guiltily halfway through the action.

"What time is it?" The tension in her voice is thick, muffling the question into a whisper.

_Don't change the subject._

"The last time I checked it was eleven, noon, on the second of January. You missed New Years unfortunately." Smiling, I glance at flurry of falling snow outside the long window diagonally to my left, slipping my hands into my pockets. Something which does not go unnoticed to Miss Crow.

"You should really go outside enjoy the New Year now that-"

"Damn-it Crane! What do you **want?**" She demands suddenly, glaring pitifully at me.

The syringe in my pocket suddenly feels extraordinarily heavy.

_**We've had this conversation before, **_obviously impatient, Scarecrow brushes me aside, grabbing Miss Crow and holding her so close that we can see the tiny flecks of green and brown in her eyes and the **fear** we need to see there, flickering and trying to hide from us.

We laugh softy,

_**I told you we're the same.**_

Snapping our- **my**, mouth shut, Scarecrow struggles against me briefly for control just as the live hot water bottle (_**wow Johnny, a poet**_** and**_** a scientist**_**!**) wrenches herself from my hands. Terror, disgust and –most of all- relief blazing on her features as she strides hurriedly from the crisp afternoon light of the living room and through the door-less frame leading into the corridor. Following her path with his eyes, Scarecrow attempts to smirk yet fails dismally at manipulating my body as I retain control, before the warmly coloured wood door to the –only- bedroom shuts; I finally wrestle back my eyes from Scarecrow, focusing them immediately on something else. The game of chess left half played on the table opposite me proves distraction enough for now as I gather my thoughts to formulate a plan and ensure control.

_For the last time we are nothing alike, Scarecrow! Can I not enjoy a conversation without interruption? If we are really so alike then, surely, you would know that I __**detest**__ being interrupted._

_**Ah well Johnny, in time you'll understand how speaking just a little less formally will be of benefit to you... just like me. **_Scarecrow chuckles hauntingly in my head, _**and could you call **_**that**_** an enjoyable conversation?**_

Scoffing at this as I pace silently past the door Miss Crow had just disappeared through and towards the front door (_oak, perhaps?_) not in case she tries to escape (this is her home after all); but as an expression of **control.**

_Yes, _I growl internally; whilst I lean my exhausted frame against the said front door, now resenting the time I had invested into making sure that the young woman would not die from her reluctant exposure to my drug and to **him**. _I would._

_**Really? **_Scarecrow sounds sceptical, sarcastic,_** little Crow didn't seem to be enjoying herself, what with you seeing her nak-**_

_I did not! _Almost blushing at Scarecrow's voyeuristic tone, I rush to justify myself to my 'demon'._ I __**had**__ to change her clothes to treat her injuries and that item just so happened to-_

_**-catch your eye? Strike you as a decent tool for unnerving her?**_

_The latter and you know it._

Scarecrow sighs,_** don't tell me you're gay after all this time. Any man would be feeling...**_

I shrug, nonplussed as the voice in my head continues his rant. After all, biology deems females attractive to males and vice-versa. There's not much I can do to change that bothersome fact; whereas to be homosexual one would have to actively find another man attractive, something I do not do- even with females.

_Scarecrow kindly __**shut up**__ whilst I think of a plan. _I snarl, rejecting yet another attempt of Scarecrow's control for my body.

_**Of course Johnny, I don't want to mess up your experiment after all; just remember to let me play as well, otherwise I'll just to remind you of your lack of control... that being me naturally.**_

Before I can reply, the brass handle to the bedroom falls to the deadly cold slate floor, clattering loudly before silence reclaims the air.

Feeling interested as to why Miss Crow would trap herself in her room when she appears to be terrified of being trapped, I walk towards the door, allowing my footsteps to tap ominously as I draw closer, closer, to the closed door.

Coming to a stop, I can hear the faint, panicked breathing of Miss Crow from the over side of the door. I decide that I would like to hear it more often.

"D-doctor Cra-Crane?" She pleads, sounding breathless. "Pl-please, I... I'm s-stuck."


	8. An unsettled agreement

**Chapter Eight: an unsettled agreement.**

_Swimming through sick lullabies_

_Choking on your alibis – Mr Brightside, The Killers._

"P-please, d-don't lea-leave me he-he-here!" I gasp, barely able to force the words through my teeth, the midday light of sun not at all comforting as I drag my nails around the wood where the door handle was. Why the hell did it have to fall out **now**?

The lack of response from the other side of the door only adds to the panic.

"Cra-Crane, **please**! O-open the d-door!"

_The terrible screams of a man as his stomach is torn into and eaten by rats... the weakened sobbing of a nameless young girl trapped in her dead family's home, branded as yet another plague victim... more torture victims, oh God, their __**screams!**__ Enough to make an atheist pray to the empty nothing of space above for someone, anyone, to __**let me out!**_

_Locked in York Dungeon by false friends. The machines were still running; 'though too bad the lights had tripped and died._

I slide down into the floor's soft embrace crying wordlessly, lips parted in a silent scream of true and absolute horror, as an awful **nothing** comes from the other side of the warm-wood door.

_Locked in with no escape. Screaming does little good, neither do tears- what are my single, __**human**__ signs of terror and helplessness to those which thrust themselves so carelessly from the likes of machines and electricity... never tiring, always emitting that terrible, mournful sound... the sound of fear and agony rolled into one inhuman note._

Unsure of how long I lie curling in on my shaking body on the lush ruby carpet for, I fight against the terror which strikes me repeatedly for being encaged, trapped... maybe I am only this affected thanks to being traumatised by Scarecrow's fear gas? Or is it the way he reminds me of how vulnerable I am, of what I should fear, of the things that go bump in the night...?

"Miss Crow?" Suddenly starting at the use of my name (_a little too formal- never mind that, he's not abandoned me at least!_) my ears perk up, intent on listening to anything, even **him**, rather than the echoes of a best-forgotten memory. "I want you to get away from the door. I am going to break it down."

"O-oh, th-thank- Cr-Crane, I-!" _Why would Crane even think about helping me...? Of course, if I die in here he wouldn't be able to hide very easily from the police should I be declared missing, as here would be the first place they check..._

Stumbling to my feet, I stagger backwards and to the side, well out of the door's range should Jonathan do as he said he would and cast the door from its hinges.

A moment of hope smoothes my fears as I wrap my arms around my shivering body, wondering why it is taking him so long to barge down the door... Is it even physically possible for Crane to do it? He's so scrawny after all. The vivid memory of nimble fingers digging into my –now tender- throat, squeezing the life from me tears its way through my argument. Of course Crane can do it. And yet... he's only- only human. _Oh, bugger._

Panic rips at my throat as the words sling themselves wildly from my convulsing throat.

"Crane, do-don't d-do it! Y-you'll h-h-hurt yourself!"

**BANG!**

The honey wood door bursts open faster than a zombie's stomach in an all-you-can-eat human flesh competition.

Surprisingly the doctor just stands where the door was, rubbing his shoulder with an annoyed expression aimed directly at-

_-me? Wait what did I do? It was the door handle's fault for falling off like that. _Yet an irrational (considering whom my 'rescuer' is) grin coils my lips upwards just as the sheer relief of being released from my confinement sinks in.

A phobia is irrational. Fear is not. Thus my fear of him is far outweighed my cleithrophobia: the fear of being **locked** in an enclosed space.

Unable to cover my emotions of gratitude any longer, I pounce on the glaring man, hugging him in the soft lighting of the corridor. _His suit smells strange,_ I note, its bitter scent/taste prickling my tongue as I usher words of thanks. _Must be his cologne._ Smiling gratefully, I glance up to face my rescuer (_there's something horribly wrong with the idea of __**him**__ being associated with saving people... maybe not Jonathan; but certainly __**him**_), my smile remains, fading eventually as Scarecrow's mask peels away from the centre to reveal that his mask is not made up of tattered burlap; but of thumbscrews and tiny, working racks and miniature people bellowing in agony.

Leaning closer, I can make out the faces: my parents; my brothers; Izzy; that guy with the short dreadlocks who served me coffee at the airport... and two men I have been seeing a lot of recently, Jonathan Crane and Scarecrow, both in the process of having their arms and legs dislocated by the rack.

I am the one torturing them. Everyone.

"No!" I yell, turning my head away from the scene, _the mask,_ I correct myself, _it's a mask. __**None of this is real.**_"I can't- **will not** hurt them- wrong- you're wrong Jonathan, Scarecrow, I don't do this, **can't** do this!"

With a low, sinister chuckle and a hollow amusement to his tone, the masked man pushes me back, away from himself. Oddly the skeletal, fetid claws that are his hands are not bruising, leaving me free to stumble in the direction of the room I had just escaped from.

_I need to lie down._ A series of inhuman howls from under my bed make me falter however; _**it's not real.**_ Closing my eyes, I focus on my body's reaction to the toxin; rather than the mind-shattering psychological effects. _Heart-rate has increased, therefore explaining my faster breathing. Leaden feeling in my legs... _I frown slightly, annoyed; _don't quite know what's causing that. Pupils will probably be dilating to take in more light and-_

"Aren't you calm, Crow?" Curiosity, no, **fascination** laces the ex-doctor's voice and the echoing of his footsteps against the torture chamber's walls is so loud that my ears- _No! I'm in my room. In my room. __**In. My. Room.**_

"I shall take that as a yes then." From what I can hear, he steps around me, slowly, stopping just in front of my quaking form. Waiting. Observing. Analysing.

"A-act-actually," the weight of my legs prevents me from stepping back, from running, hiding or even attacking Crane. The latter is probably not the best course of action; but hey! I'm terrified right now- fight or flight, such decisions are –apparently- already made for me courtesy of my frozen body...

"Actually... what?" The sadistic doctor enquires, his voice level and deceptively soft. For a moment I want to open my eyes, look into his startling blue orbs and pick apart his motives; although I swiftly brush this aside. _Answer his question. __**Hurry.**_

"I-I," _can't admit to you how scared I am- you, Scarecrow will give me hell to find out what it is that frightens me, as if __**your**__ presence isn't enough to deal with right now!_ "I'm f-f-fine." Swallowing another lungful of sweet air, I hope that:

A: Crane will pass my lie off as the truth since the gas is already affecting my behaviour.

B: Another dosage isn't on the way to make me not 'fine'.

"Of course you are," Scarecrow drawls, a sickening, sarcastically comforting, string of words, "that would explain why you can't look at me and also why you seem to be on the verge of a panic attack."

Against my better judgement, the unwritten laws of self preservation and of basic common sense, I open my eyes, gasping.

The light in the corridor, no! morgue, is searing, burning my skin with a scent of pure evil, of burning flesh. There are corpses littered against the slick, mossy walls and on the floor; some have burst open to display the jellied organs, clotting blood and rude, protruding bones.

Bile rises in my throat, the scuttling of roaches' feet within, striking the already sated ground with an earthen tone and leaving the smouldering taste of acid in my mouth.

Scarecrow (_Crane's gone... who am I kidding, they're just as bad as the other! If not one being a tad more restrained..._) snickers.

"Seen something you don't like?"

"Y-you could s-s-say th-that..." breathing heavily, I stagger and lean against one of the wall of the chamber. **It burns.** "B-but, **it's. Not. R-real.**" I hiss, the clothes on my back melting idly soon to be followed by my blistering skin. "Th-this i-is my home. I kn-know this pl-place like the back of my hand a-and th-the last time I checked there weren't c-c-corpses o-on the fl-floor..."

"You fear death?"

"D-doesn't everyone?"

Somehow, I know that under that mask of his, Crane smiles.

* * *

Despite the meagre and pitifully subtle fearful responses I have coaxed from Miss Crow so far, a smirk inches onto my lips, barely, just holding back a laugh Scarecrow threatens to unleash.

_**Let me join in Johnny, it's no fun watching... **_In response my fingers twitch whilst my eyes follow the frantic woman's eyes which flicker from place to place, dimming for a moment before recognition, **comprehension**, settles back into place as she sees the world through the drug. _**Fascinating, **_Scarecrow murmurs, pacing excitedly in my head. My right foot slides to be level with my shoulder width. _**Fascinating.**_

_We should have tried this before: using a weak dosage of the toxin repeatedly, like a vaccine. _I ponder, waiting for Scarecrow's thoughts on my idea.

**No!**_** I am only interesting in **_**causing**_** fear; not curing it! Listen to me Jonathan. What are you without me?**_

_I-_

_**I said, **_Scarecrow snarls,_** what are you?**_

_I-_

_**Nothing. You are **_**nothing**_** without **_**me**_**. Would you like me to repeat that, Johns? **_**Nothing**_**.**_

_I would like-_

_**-to give our little Crow-**_

_-stop, _I sigh, agitated and unconsciously glaring,_ using the possessive-_

_**-the vaccine? Oh, Johns, **_Scarecrow sighs, folding one arm across his stomach and the other against his chest, one hand brushing his masked chin thoughtfully; _**we seem to be fresh-out of vaccine... maybe you shouldn't tell...**_

"...little Crow we're all out of vaccine!" Cackling freely, I can't help but to notice that the look on her face is priceless.

_Let me out! _Howls Johns, his face contorting–rather nicely- into something akin to rage and... oh, **horror?** How **quaint!**

"No Johns, I think you'll be quite cosy up there," upon hearing my patient's breathing beginning to make a turn for the shallow and unhealthily rapid side, I jut my head in the direction of the living room, intent on reaching the sofa where we can have a rather long conversation about the rules of hugging... "So just keep it down while I-" glancing over my shoulder for the brunette's whereabouts, I see her leaning heavily against the same wall as before, apparently petrified. Good, the idiot has finally caught on. "Hurry up or I'll **drag** you." A particularly large tremor passes through Crow's body before she shuffles towards me with huge eyes.

_**Aw, come on... **_seizing her by the upper arm, I pull along the young woman, laughing at Johnny's worrisome comments about 'what he shall do to me once he gets out' and –best of all- 'leave the experimenting to Johnny right now, his interest had been sparked'.

_**I assume that your 'interest' is purely scientific... or you can just admit your feelings and I'll be sure to pass them on once the time is right.**_

_I have no reason to __**feel**__ any emotion towards a subject; except interest perhaps, but never anything-!_

"S-S-S-S-Scarecrow?" Poor bird just seems to be falling over her words just to say my name. Anxiously tightening my grip on the warm, soft skin beneath my cold fingers, I draw a deep, calming breath. _**That's the way I like them to say it... unable to control their fear. Beautiful.**_

Johns is nervous. I can feel it.

_Do not turn around, _he warns me, fixing me with those pretty blues of his, _we need to get information out of her first. _A pregnant pause follows his rushed words. I raise an eyebrow under the mask mockingly, wondering what promises I will get from gaining the said information.

_Well, we will have a place to stay with a decent alibi should be somehow able to convince Miss Crow not to run scr- immediately, _Johns corrects himself,_ to the police._

_**And...?**_

_And __**what?**_My 'better half' snaps, his eyes hardening into something only marginally lesser than one of my stares. _Get her on the couch and talk to her for God's sake! We need somewhere to stay and this might as well be it- no one will look for us here._

_**Alright Johns, just for old times' sake I'll help you-**_

_-us, this affects us both-_

_**-out; but rest assured I will be wanting some form of payment for this. **_My lips twist upwards in a textbook smile.

_Such as?_

_**More time to experiment? I need fear Johnny. Not 'want' or 'enjoy', **_**need**_**. So give me something to press fear onto; or watch as our little Crow breaks beneath my-**_

_And why should I care? _Hastily asks the other, Johnny can be so heartless at times... at least I can be honest with myself and my toys... to an extent.

I chuckle. _**You know that your reverse psychology works like a nightmare on others; but not me or our battered Crow... something else which makes her **_**anomalous**_**. **_

_Fine. _Poor Johns sounds so pathetic and defeated now... what a wonderful shame. _I can give you more time with other subjects, we still have at least one base which the Bat has been unable to locate, we can use that. Just, _something foreign –no more that that- alien, flickers into my senses as Johnny's thoughts grate parallel to my own. It passes smoothly; yet I can't help but notice that it resembles –to me- the smug feeling of a successful experiment, _let me have the control variable as Crow. I assure you she will undoubtedly forgive us and permit us to stay... should you not be in control in her apartment._

_**Smartass. **_I growl, slamming the oak chair I had just dragged from the tiny table with the chess board on top into the stone floor next to the leather sofa our Crow lies upon. She jumps and I wholeheartedly take a deviant delight in seeing her do so, much to Johnny's disgust. _**So **_**now**_** you don't want to see her terrified? To hear her screams and gasps? What about-?**_

_Hush Scarecrow, I can change my mind if I wish. _Poor Johns sounds indignant at me evaluating his behaviour. Odd, I thought doctors like having a second opinion.

Snickering, I settle down at ease into the chair, my eyes never leaving my... Johnny's, no, **our** control variable's bloodless, stark grey features.

_**Just remember that once I'm done with these questions you'll have **_**a few days**_** to find me some new toys...**_

_And you will have to make do in the meantime without any more to do with 'our Crow'. _Asserts Johns, nodding internally.

_**Oh, Johnny,**_ I smile thinly, drawing out a tattered black notebook and pen from our suit's inner pocket, _**don't tempt me.**_

__

Scarecrow had –I suppose- restrained himself: he had only asked for my greatest fear once (a question I would not answer him, much to his annoyance) and for what I had seen whilst under the influence of his **weak** fear toxin.

That I did answer. Much to his delight.

Afterwards Scarecrow had mockingly apologized; although I dare say that it is then which I began to feel sorry for the poor man, being trapped as an observer in someone else's (no matter how close you are to the person) head is a fate not may would like to receive. In my irrational pity I had tentatively reached out to touch his arm and –queerly enough- Scarecrow received the gesture with the sort of grace I would not have expected from a man who had murdered a bunch of thuggish men days before and had gassed me numerous times... the last –untreated- dose is still wearing off, there isn't going to be any lasting damage Crane tells me; just the nightmares, but I can handle them can't I?

I have been already for a while now.

Regardless, after the arm touching Scarecrow **asked** me to **ask** Jonathan to allow him to talk to me again (apparently I have degree of power over Dr. Jekyll), as he had enjoyed our 'game of twenty questions'. In truth, it had been fun. In the sort of way you might have fun on a rickety, breaking rollercoaster or as one might have when swimming with sharks; but fun nevertheless.

It was then which Crane returned to his body and insisted that he wash his suit in something alkali, to neutralise the toxin Scarecrow had sprayed into his clothes when he had the hunch that I might hug the charming hero who had saved me from the terrors of being locked in my room.

Needless to say I returned to being frightened of Scarecrow rather quickly; albeit I found myself musing (even now, lying in my clean sheeted bed, attempting to sleep without the fear of nightmares or night terrors) about how lonely, how desperate Scarecrow must be to want to talk with even one of his victims... and of how convincing he can be.

Turning onto my back a drained sigh leaves my lips as my unusually short nailed fingers sleepily flick on the switch to my handy survival torch (now kept on my bedside table in case of Crane, or more specifically Scarecrow) and shine it upwards to the clock directly above my bed.

Upside-down clock-reading is surprisingly difficult.

10:11pm.

Switching off the lamp and placing it quietly on the table beside me, I am about to settle back down to sleep when a shadow passes my door (the door is being leaned into the frame, since being knocked clean off its hinges... feeling very much like my sanity for letting the frightful doctor stay...) in the direction of the front and only entrance door.

For once my curiosity is sated enough knowing that Crane is going out for a while, it's better off not know what for, as sleep welcomes me for the first nightmare of the night.

Naturally Scarecrow starred in most; yet Crane always seemed to be somewhere in the background, noting things down in a spidery scrawl within a black notebook. Once our brief embrace of the lips created a nightmare, that one I awoke feeling robbed as a shadow paused over the crack of light under my broken door for a brief second, before continuing down the hall.

Each step like a clause in our unsettled agreement:

Tap. Do not cause any unreasonable harm (either physical or psychological) upon the other during Crane's stay.

Tap. Never call the police or any other emergency service.

Tap. Respect the other's privacy.

Tap. Remain true to the alibi.

**Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.**


	9. He who will not live on Pop Tarts

**Chapter Nine: He who will not live on Pop Tarts.**

So far my morning was going well ignoring the nightmares, I had gotten out of bed in a decent time (_had I left the heating on?_), brushed my teeth and splashed my face in the sink in the corner of my room. Eventually I changed into my favourite winter, lazy day jumper made of soft and none itchy black wool, and a pair of old, ink splattered jeans. With candle wielding snowman socks.

Rolling my shoulders contently, I think that I'll just grab my coat, scarf and shoes to wander Gotham's streets for a peaceful café to have breakfast in, then I'll take my sketch book to that park I had been reading about and...

I push down the noble brass handle to my room and pull. The door falls leisurely towards me; automatically I scramble away, throwing myself out of the light wooden door's tragic fall just in time to avoid being horrifically crushed before breakfast.

A glasses wearing man wielding a battered can of deodorant appears from the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his midsection and his dark hair slicked back with water, dripping and scanning for the non-existent danger.

"R-relax, I just forgot about the door," I mumble, averting my eyes quickly from Crane's bruised, scarred torso before he notices me looking.

A mutter of 'be more careful next time you bumbling idiot' and a waft of humid air as the bathroom door closed, later; I rethink my plan about finding that café._ Maybe later... when I don't have a psychopathic criminal living with me..._

Shivering, I step through my battered door frame and make a point of walking as assertively as possible to the living room. I need to stay optimistic. Scarecrow's not going to be in control whilst Crane is in the apartment and there are our four rules, so what's there to be afraid of? Flipping on the television, Gotham City News reporting live in the 'Narrows', the reporter (an elderly man, if the grey streaks in his hair are anything to go by) speaks hurriedly, occasionally wiping his brow with a handkerchief. I frown, scratching my neck as the man speaks about the details of 'The Breakout in Arkham'. _Hadn't that thug (in the snow) mentioned __**Arkham**__?_

"We are still trying to capture several criminals," a police officer on the small screen states, "but there are still many of these criminals at large. For example, Arnold Wesker –otherwise known as the Ventriloquist- is highly dangerous and yes, he has Scarface with him, thus we consider him a threat to the lives of the public. We suggest that..."

My frown deepens as the thug's words finally echo in my mind: _"...__Crane here tried to poison the whole of Gotham City, was locked away in Arkham –a loony bin for freaks- and just keeps escaping…__"_

"Who do I think caused this? Scarecrow of course." At the sound of his name, my breathing hitches and my attention is focusing entirely on the words which leave the officer's mouth. "He worked here an' so Scare- Doctor Crane, would know the best means of escaping; not to mention he has escaped the asylum twice before."

The clip ends and the old reporter is back in the Narrows.

"The police and Batman have found another group of victims, most likely killed by one or more of the criminally insane escapees from Arkham."

A picture of each of the thugs whom I had (somewhat) stopped from beating Crane flash up on screen. My spine chills suddenly.

"Do not worry yourself," Crane says from behind me, "the police and their **pet** Bat will not be able to trace their deaths back to me. Thus you are safe from them."

_Note how he says from 'them'..._

"What about you?" I ask, aware of my voice drops to a whisper when another –more familiar- picture strikes the screen.

"Jonathan Crane, aka Scarecrow, is still at large and is a definite threat to the public. Should you see him, **do not** confront him. It is highly likely that he will be carrying a portable version of the gas which affected the Narrows on the-"

"You give the impression that you do not trust my word, Crow."

"-figures now show there to be at least eighty terminally impaired victims due to the gas, mainly consisting of the elderly and already mentally ill persons. I shall repeat, if you see Crane **do not** confront him. Call the police or the following helpline should you find a victim of the fear toxin..."

"I have to admit it's difficult trusting the word of a..." I trail off, lost for a word to describe Crane and his actions.

"A...?" He prompts, reaching over the cold leather of the sofa to rest a skeletal hand on my shoulder. A warning that he wants an answer and that he will not let me go until he has it.

I try shrug it off, uncomfortable at his touch. The doctor's hand becomes a vice, squeezing with a vicious knowledge until I am still once more.

"I haven't the w-word to describe you- you're just... **You**. W-why would you do that," I jerkily nod in the direction of the screen, the weather (heavy snow all week) now playing, "to anyone? Oh God, that thu- man, was telling the truth... you **did** try to poison the whole of Gotham!" Tucking my chin into my chest for reasons unknown to even myself, I try to ignore Crane's ominous footfall as his shadow drops over me.

"I did intoxicate a great deal of Gotham's people, yes." Jonathan affirms without any signs of emotion in his voice. Hesitantly, I find myself staring into his face, hoping desperately for some sign of remorse for what he had done.

I can see nothing upon that face. _Perhaps a reason? Yes... Crane is a logical man, he will have some sort of reasoning behind what he did. Experimentation, asserting power, what about-?_

"I needed the money for my experiments," the dark haired man resumes. Somewhat shocked into being nonchalantly, I note how the path of a single droplet of water from his shower is cut short of its path down his sharp features by a callous swipe of a lanky, bandaged hand.

The hand which had saved, hurt, held and gassed me. _Jonathan Crane I can't understand you, what do you want to do __**next**__...?_

_

* * *

_

_**Are you **_**sure**_** that you don't want to let me out, Johnny? Our careless Crow won't know the difference between us if I play with the stronger-**_

Exaggerating a sigh, I sit next to the brunette on the leather couch, turning my gaze to the 'Joker Killings' on the news. _This man is causing quite a stir..._

_**Makes you jealous does it? **_Scarecrow pounces upon my feelings, picking each on apart like a- _**Crow? **_He screeches, howling with laughter as I shake my head, snapping it to and fro in order to dispel the demon from my mind.

"Be quiet!" I growl in a barely audible voice, I swear if she thinks I can't even control- _**Oh, Johnny-sonny! I think you're obsessed!**_

"C-Crane, i-is it...?" not even bothering to face the owner of the trembling whisper, I hiss an affirmative to her unfinished question.

"I am in control." _**Liar. You are little good without me Johns; but if you insist in your weak attempts to keep me away from the interesting things in your life, then I'll just have to use brute force to make you see things my way.**_

_We have an agreement! _I snap, my inner voice tumbling on the very edge of a shout, to which Scarecrow only cackles at drawing out some raw emotion from me. I resume, reciting our agreement for good measure. _I shall get you your test subjects in one of the bases which-!_

_**-will be highly suspicious and the Bat will realise that people are suddenly disappearing, hunt us down and have **_**our**_** little Crow taken away from us along with **_**our**_** freedom. Oh dear me, can't have that happen can we? That means that I'll need something to induce fear into **_**here**_**. **_His voice has a certain smugness to it, one which can only be gained from presenting an argument and knowing –before the opponent's rebuttal- that you have won.

_You-! _

"A drop of wine was all it took that time,

His lips against her own,

Oh, please not now-

Lust is at home.

Lust is my name

And you are my game.

Control is what you bind me with;

Hook her up now, her mind's a sieve.

Hurry now or she'll forget your name!

(Better move slow; lest her remember your game.)

Quickly now, a terrible thought!

What if the other's

Attention

I've

Caught...?"

A quality of calmness runs over my senses from the sweetness of the rhythm of the words, soothing, like a song or lullaby. Yet –unfortunately- Crow appeared to of remembered who she is sitting with and trailed off with a question hanging most peculiarly in the air.

On the upper hand however, Scarecrow is a mere buzz in the recess of my head, somehow subdued by the young woman's (spontaneous?) poem. Questioningly I lift and turn my head to face Crow, her cheeks an awkward rouge and her darker eyes avoiding my own until I shift closer, instantaneously drawing her attention to me and my motives. Yet I know that my body language will be infuriatingly neutral, impossible for the inexperienced (in the terms of psychoanalysis of course, I am not the sort of person to take on a Lolita... she would be much too old to be a Lolita anyway), recently graduated girl to read. Smirking internally, I reassure myself that my face **is** blank before further proceeding.

"A song to tame the beast, Crow? I never thought you able to withhold your fears enough to speak clearly; never mind improvise a half-decent poem."

Something akin to her normal personality (or so I would imagine it to be) appears to seep back as Cara smiles; albeit the fact that I have just insulted her. Strange. I try again,annoyed. "You do realise that I have just insulted you?"

She nods; regardless the smile on her face creeping more towards a grin now.

"What?" I snap, unable to get the joke. What can be so **funny** in her situation? She's basically a hostage in her own home, is covered in bruises and –well- there's always Hyde locked away up here...

"Dorothy? Oh Dorothy! Where are you? Dorothy!" Following Crow's amused gaze to the screen, I watch as an old woman appears to be looking for 'Dorothy' in the middle of a hurricane, before being ushered down a trapdoor in the side of home or barn.

Frowning at the black and white film, something flickers in the back of head, a long-forgotten memory from years back.

"The Wizard of Oz?" I muse aloud, wondering wherefore or not I had guessed correctly. _Now why is it so funny-?_

_**Aw, **_coos a familiar voice; albeit a fraction less imposing as usual, _**does Johnny need a brain?**_

I catch on._ Scarecrow. Of course!_

"It may not be too tasteful to play this Doctor Crane; although," Crow backtracks as she glances at my expression, "I-I'm guessing that was accidental- when you moved closer you must've accidently switched the channels to this, hm?"

I nod, once and with extreme deliberation, making sure that the woman would not laugh at my mistake. That would remind me of things- people, whom I would rather forget.

_**And gas. **_

_And gas. _I agree, settling the matter.

"Doctor Crane?"

"Yes?" _**Ouch, is this a setback Johns? She's calling you 'Doctor'!**_

"I was, was just wondering if you like Pop Tarts..."

I frown, partly at the queer weight of Scarecrow's previous comment, as for some reason I find the prospect of being called something less formal rather attractive at this point in time. _Maybe I've lost too much blood in too little time..._ And at the mention of the said Pop Tarts (which I can still vaguely remember being rammed down my throat by a drunken room-mate, seeing as I hadn't the money to afford a single dorm when I first moved out seeing as I could not sell Granny's mansion without the deeds) my throat constricts as my lips twist in distaste.

"No, Miss Crow, I think I would rather eat a canister of my own fear toxin, than suffer eating any of those sugar riddled creations..."

"Ah, well," Cara twists a strand of her hair nervously between her index finger and thumb, starring me in the eyes with a sure look of defiance and... victory? on her smiling face, "you should have thought about that sooner before you threw away that hotpot, that **compost**, I made... what have you been eating for the past few days if not... oh God, y-you didn't," the smile on her face drops as my own smile (and interest) rise at the sheer horror on the brunette's face.

Somewhere in the back of my head, Scarecrow sighs exasperatedly.

_**Johnny-boy, you haven't quite got the knack of this yet... you either want to terrify her (and will let me join in, damn you!) or you want to be little friends with our little Crow. Make up your mind for the last time or I swear I'm going to go **_**mad**_** in here!**_

With some minor difficulty, I manage to pull my lips into a straight line; albeit my interest I don't even attempt to rein in.

"You didn't, did you, Crane?" She persists, moving off the sofa and making a bee-line towards the fridge. Naturally I wander over too, just to see what had worried Crow in checking her... her freezer?

"Oh thank goodness," she sighs, about to reclose the door when I lean over to check what could be so important that-

Scarecrow laughs (if not a little nervously).

I stare.

Cara shuts the freezer door with a 'whump'.

"What," I start, disbelief lacing my words, "is all that ice-cream for?"

"Emergencies." Crow grins, turning to face me. Scarecrow grumbles something about her apparent lack of fear; but otherwise is undisturbed by this. This however, sets me on edge: where did that stutter go? "And it's what you'll be living off from now on."

I open the fridge door, revealing something other than ginger ale, apparently shocking Crow into –trying- to speak illiterate sentences. _Courtesy of Tesco online..._

"I- what- you- shopping- cook- crazy- you- you-?" Shaking her head slowly, my eyes catch hers and the confusion which lies there. "You bought a pineapple. Why?"

"To make more fear toxin out of." Apparently Crow misses my sarcasm and pales significantly.

"Really-?"

"No," I snap, "one tends to eat pineapples; not scream because of them!"

"Oh, I wouldn't be too sure of that... have you **seen** Little Nicky?"

_**It **_**is**_** a good film. **_Scarecrow joins in sniggering knowingly.

"Oh, shut up **both** of you. You both act like **children** sometimes..." Massaging my temples with a practiced motion, I glare down at the woman in front of me. "Do you not need to go to work or something?"

"I told you, I'm an artist, only..." something seemingly clicks in her head (_note to self: emotion flickers across her face so readily, I –__**we**__- can make use of this if necessary later_), as she hesitantly continues. "Not many commissions have been coming through recently... I might actually have to get an established job."

"Very funny," I say dryly, suddenly aware of the amount of spare time I shall have to spend with the woman; unless she finds a **real** job.

_**A **_**real**_** job? **_

_What's your point? _I sigh, already exhausted by the morning's banter.

_**Like the one we had up at Arkham? **_Glee laces Scarecrow's words and I don't miss the way his thoughts and intentions are uncannily parallel to my own at the prospect of having someone 'on the inside' as it were. The perfect set up.

A loud knock at the door is enough to make Crow jump and for my thoughts to resurface into reality however.

"You should hide,"

I nod, already moving hastily.

"I shall be in the study, reading." As we enter the stone corridor, I fall back slightly, just so that I am behind the brunette as I warn her softly. "If that's your friend... 'Izzy' at the door, I **insist** that you have fun, invite her in, drink tea, whatever. Just remember,"

A tapping of a tune at the door rings out down the hallway.

"Not to tell her about you, I know Crane. I will not."

"Good choice." I finish, turning off into the study and closing the damaged (courtesy of Scarecrow's happy stabbing) door curtly behind me.

Immediately, I flatten my back against the door, waiting for any sign that the two women are calling the police or... The muffled noise of a conversation tells me that Miss Crow has kept her side of the deal. _But why?_ I am –for once- at a loss for a motive; for 'out of the goodness of her heart' has never and shall never be the case for anyone. **Everyone** wants something.

As footsteps move past the study's thick, wooden door, I relax, deftly walking in the direction of the desk and inspecting the –randomly shelved- books as I go.

A good portion of which appear to be on psychology.

Taking one of the books at random, several scraps of paper catch my eye, poking –almost guiltily- out of the sides of the hefty tome. Making for the desk still, I open the book on the first page with an insert: _Dealing with Nightmares_, it reads, scanning the text beneath with a critical eye I make out the advice given to be akin to that of a two year old giving advice on how to build a rocket. Thankfully, the curling handwriting on the paper inserted agrees with my observation.

After flicking through the rest of the –painful to read- book, I hunt for something for stimulating to read. Lovecraft, perhaps?

The sound of footsteps rapidly approaching the door interrupts my search; the sound of Miss Crow's panicked voice and the panic in the second (presumably Izzy's... Isabelle's) causes me to draw out the last canister of fear gas I have.

_**Just waste them, **_Scarecrow sings, tugging at my consciousness for his much desired control, _**but do it **_**slowly**_** Johns. We won't be able to do this again for a while when-**_

_**Hush**__, this is for a warning, nothing more. I am staying here to recover and to do that best I should not have to lug corpses or shrieking women about. You should stay out of this. I need to concentrate._

The door opens with a furious looking young woman holding a spoon (still dripping with ice-cream and... are those **marshmallows?**) like it is a knife in her outstretched hand.

"Sorry Jonathan," Crow winces at the glare I send her, as her friend advances, apparently unaware of who I happen to be... or too enraged by something to realise it. "But Izzy knows me all too well to realise when something is wrong. Izzy, please don't kill Crane, **he** wasn't the one who gassed-"

With narrowed eyes, the second brunette prowls further towards me.

"The **freak** manipulated you into kissing him." The spoon shakes lightly, as the glare intensifies into something I feel the need to actually acknowledge as a threat. "That's just sick..."

I raise the canister. _**No.**_ _That was __**necessary**__. _

"Crane! No!" Snarls Crow, gone is the meek, submissive creature I had become almost accustomed to. Crow's protective instincts appear to have finally kicked in. Understandable. If only it were for **herself**, the fool. "What about our **agreement**? No psychological damage to be done to the other? Or are you a liar **as well as** a murderer?" Crow sidesteps her spoon-wielding friend to confront me.

_**Why that little-!**_

"And **you** would know all about **lying** would you not, Lilly Root, how **original**!"

"Says you Doctor Psycho'!" She howls back. _If that's the way you want to play... _

"Bumbling idiot!"

"Straw brains!"

"Pathetic little Crow with cleithrophobia!"

"Sack head with an obsession for fear!"

"Useless cook!"

"Bastard! Take that back!"

"I don't think I shall!"

Laughter breaks up our explosive banter and in an eerie unison we creak our necks (somewhat reluctantly, thanks to the beatings we had both previously been on the receiving end of) to intensely stare at the still giggling Izzy, who had pocketed the spoon. _She definitely is a strange one._

"You guys seem fine, okay kids; I'm off to work now! With the **other** crazies I need to take care of..." Turning swiftly to leave, the taller (than Crow; not myself fortunately) woman pauses momentarily before turning and glaring at me from a reasonably safe distance. "Doctor Crane, don't let me here of any more problems concerning Cara or I'll **maul** you, comprendo?" Without waiting for an answer, the odd, violent woman leaves the room only to be stopped once more by her friend calling her name.

"Hey Izzy! You couldn't pick me up an application form at work could you please? Things haven't been going quite to plan and there's rent to pay still."

'Izzy' grins peculiarly and I swear that her eyes vibrate. "You're joining us in the madness, Cara-kun? Phantasmagorical. Just be careful of **him**," she juts her freckled face in my direction, "he's the scariest and most dangerous one you'll have to deal with... and you're **living** with him, yeash, I wouldn't be able to sleep at night! Call me later to say you're okay, right?"

A self-assured smirk weaves itself onto my lips at the shiver which passes unintentionally down the speaker's blue suited body as she comprehends just who I am and what I do.

_**Let's play with her! I wonder what makes her scr-?**_

_I do believe that we were warned __**specifically**__ not to harm this woman? _I raise an eyebrow._ Least our fingers be cut off and shoved down our throat, that is._

Scarecrow pouts; but is pacified. _**Spoilsport. **_He mutters, before receding to corners of my subconscious. Plotting, most likely, of how to instil fear into our host-_**age**_.

The front door clicks and the clinking of the chain being replaced shivers down the hallway and into the open study. I wait for the footsteps to move and when they do I hear them come towards me, uneven and uncertain of their path.

"Miss Crow," I say, as the said woman comes almost shyly into view, "would you care for a game of chess?" She nods once, watching me closely as I return the canister of toxin into my suit, then leads the way towards the board.

"Sorry," she says as we sit opposite the other, setting up the pieces for their war, I can somehow see us playing this game often. "For snapping at you, sorry, that was unnecessary and –well- rude... although you did take out the gas. I- I thought you were going to-"

I move first, playing the white knight nearest the queen into the open battlefield of unforgiving black and white.

"-poison your friend? No, I remembered that you warned me explicitly not to do so and I believe that I do owe you **something** for allowing me to stay." I watch impassively as Crow moves a stout pawn, proudly wielding a short sword and oval shield two spaces into the middle of the board. The lone piece appears so helpless in that sea of oblivion black and oblivion white squares.

_**Remind you of someone?**_

_Hush, Scarecrow. Don't ask double ended questions._

I block it with one of my own pawns, observing the blank, focused expression upon my opponent's face as her eyes flicker between our pieces' positions. A commander at work.

Crow moves the pawn obscuring her left-hand rook, glancing across the board again, then at me briefly before letting go.

"Thanks," she smiles, returning her attention back to the battle at hand, "for not hurting her. When I-"

The third piece I move is the same as the first.

"-told her that you were the 'boyfriend' my neighbour mentioned to her, Izzy actually looked **terrified**. I've never seen her like-"

Without really thinking, I move a pawn, analysing the recount Crow gives me of her companion's reaction with interest. She also moves a pawn.

"-that, even after we had been to the cinema to watch a horror film. The night you attacked the Narrows, Izzy was there, she told me terrible things of-"

Again, I block her pawn.

"-what she saw and about the patients she now treats because of what you'd done. They just scream is what she told me. Scream night and day. They have to be sedated just to eat and sleep; otherwise they wouldn't, they **can't**, they just... scream."

_**It must be a wonderful sound mustn't it, Johnny? We should give her a recorder just to listen to it...**_

Growling at Scarecrow's distracting comment (_**only because it **_**appeals**_** to you, doesn't it Johns?**_), I realise that Crow has not yet taken her turn; instead just sits there, gazing with downcast, dead eyes at the board, lost in her thoughts. Not to be narcissistic; but I have a hunch to believe that she is reconsidering the implications of letting me stay...

"It is your turn to move."

"And so it is," she moves yet another pawn half-heartedly, not really seeing the board anymore.

With a groan, I lean back into the carved oak of my chair, running a hand frustratingly through my –finally dry- wavy hair.

"Miss Crow," I start, gleaming a good look at the woman through my rimless glasses as she eventually glowers up at me through her own, "I understand if this new information has changed your perspective of me; but do you really want to continue acting so bipolar for the rest of my stay? Terrified and shaking one moment, returning to your 'normal' the next, aggressive and protective with a single threat and now," I raise my eyebrows, leaning forward to emphasise my point, "depressed?"

Without moving, Miss Crow protests her response through her teeth.

"I am not **depressed.**"

My neck tilts, my head tilting along with it.

"Then **this** is your norm?" I challenge, Scarecrow smirks finally liking my assertive attitude.

"No." Crow sits straighter, defying my dominance with the curt answer. Scarecrow's smirk grows like a cancer at this, the ragged seams of his lips fit to burst once her eyes regain some of her odd personality. _Something which I will need to explore further if I –__**we**__- are to stay for much longer, which we are planning on._

"Good; otherwise your norm would be incredibly **boring** for us to endure."

"Well, I would be awfully sorry to **bore** you, Jonathan!"

Scarecrow cackles as my eyebrows furrow suddenly, _that didn't quite go to plan..._

_**In your twenties and **_**still**_** that same socially challenged teenager! Whatever shall I do about you Johns? **_I roll neck, my face smirking involuntarily. _**Let me show you how to-**_

_Scarecrow, __**no!**_I gasp, moving to stand, to move away from Crow before he fully takes control.

"**Take it!"** With my hands writhing, jerking and convulsing, I toss my weapon to the petrified Miss Crow, who scarcely manages to move to catch it in time as she rushes to her feet, backing away from me a safe –_**but not safe enough**_- distance.

The mask is oddly not ushered swiftly over my face; albeit Scarecrow is in control of my body now. He can do as pleases.

_I have done all that I can, Cara, just do not give him the toxin for the love of-!_

_

* * *

_

The toxin feels sturdy, powerful, dangerous and most of all **terrifying** in my hands. The wall behind and to the left-hand side of me more of the first perhaps.

_Why corners, Cara? _I sigh, letting the shuddering breath leave me and all too quickly taking another. And another. And- _**Stop it,**__ I need to calm down. __**Calm down.**__ Scarecrow doesn't have the toxin does he? I do. He can't hurt me, I beat him in a fist-fight once and I can do it again if I must._

Nothing, however, can prepare me for those words –that poem- recited flawlessly by Crane's alter ego.

"That thou hast her, it is not all my grief,

And yet it may be said I lov'd her dearly;

That she hath thee is of my wailing chief,

A loss in love that touches me more nearly.

Loving offenders, thus I will excuse ye:

Thou dost love her because thou know'st I love her,

And for my sake even so doth she abuse me,

Suff'ring my friend for my sake to approve her.

If I lose thee, my loss is my love's gain,

And, losing her, my friend hath found that loss;

Both find each other, and I lose both twain,

And both for my sake lay on me this cross.

But here's the joy: my friend and I are one;

Sweet flattery! then she loves but me alone."

I recognise his words of those of Shakespeare's passion, a sonnet, Sonnet 42. I had only put it on my wall because of my indecisiveness between which of the numerous, beautiful (despite the way I try to reject romance, a part of me still yearns for it) sonnets by Shakespeare to share with the walls, the meaning life: 42, struck me as one I should include. Yet now I regret doing such an impulsive, foolhardy, innocent thing. Or do I? That indecisiveness scares me as much as Scarecrow does, even with his toxin (which I hide between my back and the wall). A secondary, more practical thought inspires me next: how can he remember all fourteen lines? That poem is defiantly in the hallway so Scarecrow can't be reading it from one of the walls around us in the living room...

"Although Johnny's memory is quite questionable, **mine** is photographic." The Crane-but-not's lips twitch into a crude smile, reminding me of his lack of honourable human interaction. _Even a child knows how to smile._ I nod, acknowledging Scarecrow's boast, eyes never leaving the taller man's patient advance and calculating glances: _where is the toxin? How will she attack? How will I attack?_ Running through what I hypothesise to be in the madman's head, I prepare myself for the worst possible outcome. If Scarecrow does get the toxin (_**if**__, I __**will not**__ let him even __**touch**__ this canister!_) what will, what **should** I do? I cannot, will not, rely on Crane stabbing himself in the hand (_literally or otherwise_) to save me again.

_I am __**not**__ helpless!_

Scarecrow's footfall is close, too close, imposing, now. I am looking directly into his electric eyes as he stands over me, curse him for using our height difference against me. Clever man. _No! Stop thinking so erratically, irrationally! Ignore the lack of personal space! He's manipulating you, you silly girl! He __**wants**__ you to panic and-!_

Lean, suited arms snake smoothly, swiftly around my soot coloured jumper, sliding around my shape until they slip the canister of fear gas from my stunned fingers.

Scarecrow starts to draw the canister back towards him.

Instinctively, I push my back against his retreating hands, still holding their prize, locking them behind me against the loyal stone wall. My hands shake slightly as I grip the top of his arms and hold them steady as he pulls against my resistance to allow him, the delusional 'doctor', to take his foul toxin to cause more fear than he already causes me now.

He stops moving. Breathing with more emphasis than I would usually, I gaze finally upwards into the man's face. Scarecrow stares back.

"Jonathan?" I tersely call; although my voice rises a few octaves and leaves me feeling breathless. "Jonathan Crane, I-I know you can hear me, please-" Scarecrow (_Crane- Jonathan, would never do this, I think..._) leans in so close that our noses brush lightly. Flinching does very little; I am already virtually merging with the callous stone of the wall, Scarecrow chuckles quietly and I can't help but wish that Izzy had not left, thinking me **safe** with this deceiving fiend.

"Tell me... what causes a young woman like you to be afraid of being close to someone?" Another throaty chuckle and I wince at the minty breath (_must've used my mouthwash... I'm not even going to __**think**__ about my toothbrush..._) on my lower face and neck. "Did someone hurt you?" Softer now, taunting me. "Break your heart? Unlikely the latter isn't it though, since Johnny took the pleasure of **pilfering** your first-"

Head butting Scarecrow doesn't quite go to plan. The second I graze his forehead with my own, he somehow had predicted my action and moves back with my reckless momentum. The floor, it turns out, is just as impassive as the wall. Tumbling about for a few minutes of brutish brawling, I manage to pin Scarecrow's arms under my legs and hold the toxin, nozzle facing him, to his face. Our breathing is heavy and gratefully received.

"Do it." Demands the defeated man, watching my fingers go ridged on the nozzle, I feel the automated tensing of the muscles in Scarecrow's scrawny arms under my legs as he holds his breath for a moment before continuing to breathe deeply. _He isn't afraid... Of course, what has the __**Scarecrow**__ got to be afraid of?_

My fingers loosen, turning lax on the worn nozzle before leaving it completely. I let the canister roll idly to the far wall of the room until it hits another wall. Still and harmless for now.

"I'm not like you, Scarecrow." The said villain grunts with effort as he attempts to force me off him, for a moment I can feel myself being moved; yet I shift my weight and hold down the struggling arms with a force I find myself pleasantly surprised (if not a tad unnerved) to have. "I will never listen to your orders, nor shall I act upon them. You can never, **never**, make me believe that anything you told me before is true; although I will congratulate your memory: reciting a whole sonnet so perfectly after barely seeing it... what an act!"

Scarecrow growls a warning, something I feel shudders from by simply repeating, even in the relative safety of my own mind, before saying the second most curious thing of the... oh my, it is **still** just the morning... In a daze, I steal a swift glance at the clock on the sun filled wall: _8:09am. __**Much**__ too early for this..._

"Little Crow, **my** little Crow." He reaffirms, accidently a shade of disquiet must have breached my mask of pokerfaced self-preservation, as a wide smirk spreads ghostlike onto Scarecrow's angular features at my silent discomfort. "I just wanted to let you know how much I want to play with you, I can't do exactly everything **I** want to do at once, we need to take both our wants in moderation- I don't want to frighten you, much. Yet." Scarecrow laughs quietly, momentarily moving his piercing eyes from mine. They snap back, pinning them like a sadistic collector would with insects and keen pins. "But I have to admit, you are making everything rather difficult for yourself..."

"How's that?" I argue, accidently leaning closer before catching myself and jerking back. "**You** were the one who-!"

Yet another infuriating chuckle. "As I recall, little Crow, you were the one who just wouldn't let me go..."

_Instinctively, I push my back against his retreating hands, still holding their prize, locking them behind me against the loyal stone wall. My hands shake slightly as I grip the top of his arms and hold them steady..._

"Y-you would have-!" I start, unsure all of sudden. _What's he getting at?_

"I would have... what? Poisoned you? But **I** was the one holding back your precious Jonathan when your pal came to the rescue. If I hadn't stopped him, she would be dead or worse," Scarecrow pauses dramatically, embarrassingly, my breath catches as he does so, "her mind would be **broken**."

"L-liar, you're the one wh-who..." _what if Scarecrow's telling the truth?_ I bite my lip, both of my hands scratching the bruised sides of my neck anxiously. "Y-you **killed** those thugs. Jonathan's... kinder than you... he-" Wracking my brain for a memory, hell, a mere sign of an example, I realise that the only positive things I can find are minuscule in comparison to all of the bad: those few and far between smiles count for very little when positioned next to the poisoning, the **killing**, the hurt...

"It's okay, my dear, it's all okay," a hand runs through my loose hair, down my shaking back and repeats the motion. We're both sitting on the floor, cold; but comfortable and sturdy. "He insults and hurts you and doesn't even **try** to thank you for helping him when you got us **both** out of the snow... which **I** happen to be very grateful for by the way." The shoulder I am pulled into is not quite as warm as me; but reassuring in an alien way and welcome.

"You're welcome," I mumble into it, for some reason my arms find themselves wrapped –clinging- to the torso the shoulder is attached to; yet this doesn't worry me. It's Scarecrow, I'm safe. Faintly alarm bells ring in my head: _this is wrong, move, you're standing now, why are you __**still**__ hugging him so readily? __**Scarecrow**__ was the one who gassed you; not-!_ I brush these troublesome thoughts aside. Content that **finally** I feel safe in this new country with this strange, new man. Gotham was beginning to frighten me; things are so much more terrifying when you're alone.

_I just want to feel safe. Is this too much to ask?_ Nobody answers. Of course, I hadn't spoken it. No-one answers in your head unless you suffer from-

"Little Crow?" I nuzzle the side of my head further into the grey suit before staring up at the gentle voice and its owner. Scarecrow smiles his broken smile as I keep eye contact with him, also smiling at ease.

"What is it?" I ask, moving a hand from around his back to push the hair falling onto his face away. _It's starting to block his eyes..._ I note peacefully, as it flops back into place; albeit more in line with the rest of his hair, like it had been when I had first seen him. _When... was being hurt. Not Scarecrow, but... who?_ Only grinning even wider, Scarecrow takes my smaller hand and engulfs it within his own, skeletal one with an effortlessness motion. "Scarecrow-?"

"Nothing, my dear, nothing at all... just a little buzz in my ear is all, thought I heard something."

Curious, I am about to ask more questions, but a pair of cracked lips pressing onto the back of my engulfed hand pauses me.

Shuddering unwillingly, I am about to pull back, away from my tormentor when I remember that this is Scarecrow, I'm safe with Scarecrow.

_But I would be __**safer**__ with __**Crane**__._ Where did that thought come from? Everything's jumbled...

_**Just go to sleep. It's okay. **_

Those last two thoughts seem to be in my head; yet I cannot shake the feeling that I had in fact **heard** them. _My senses are... chaotic._ I frown, not sure of how to speak; yet –with valiant effort- my voice whispers.

"Scarecrow?"

"Yes?"

"When did you mange to drug me?"

_Oh my, that grin cannot be a good sign..._ Another frown drips my brow, low and puzzled; _or is it? No! It isn't! __**Think!**__ Whatever's in my system, __**I can fight it!**_

"What gave me away, little Crow?" His arms hold me an arm length away, whilst his eyes take in whatever reactions I am unable to inhibit.

"The lack of space... Personal space, **you** don't appear to have heard of it." Scarecrow's vibrant stare continues, evaluating and smirking menacingly. My vision begins to fade. "Wh-what's happening?" I stutter, alarmed. Chuckling darkly, the man lets go of my right shoulder; but pulls me forward using my left in the direction of the kitchen. "Sca-Scarecrow! Why can't I s-see?"

"One of the side effects," he glances over his shoulder as he speaks, "it's to stop my patients from running; some do still try of course. Don't tell me you're not smart enough to realise what happens to them." The glare he must have sent me is outright chilling; despite my lack of sight at the present. "Anyway," Scarecrow resumes, opening and shutting draws at random, listening intently I try to map which draws he checks... difficult, but not impossible thankfully. "The reactions test subjects give as each of their senses shut down. One. By. One. Can be... revealing," stopping now next to the draw where the knives are- _Time to go!_

A scrawny hand hauls me –shaking- back. Letting rip an urgent battle cry, I lunge towards the villain at full speed in a jump.

He sidesteps masterfully.

The grey stone unit, however, does not.


	10. Only human

**Chapter Ten: Only human. **

_You will wait until it's over  
To reveal what you'd never shown her  
Too little much too late _Muse - Muscle Museum

I smile, a thin line growing on my lips, a snarl.

Her body lay motionless in front of me, of him. Or is this me? I can't tell right now.

_**Poor Johnny… feeling lost?**_

_What have you done Scarecrow? What did you-!_

_**-do to her? Not much, some of this, some of that… a bit of tox-**_

_-in? You know how she reacted last time she-!_

_**-was so much **_**fun**_**? Come on Johnny! You know as much I do that you like to see their faces…**_

_You're __**sick**__._

_**Then what does that you then Johns? **_Scarecrow chuckles, _**she's more fun when there's something wrong! Always wanting to help…**_

_Bastard…_

_**No that's what **_**you**_** are, born out of wedlock! My, my, should I really be associated with such a man?**_

_Go away! I need control __**now**__. The mind, her mind, isn't going to be able to take much more of-!_

_**-this…?**_

Almost lovingly, Crane watches his left hand glide over Cara's sickly pale skin, a knife in his right closely following the path. Under his wraithlike touch, she squirms, experiencing nothing short of yet another unbearable nightmare.

_**Relax Johnny, you know that chemical we used causes only temporary loss of sensory functions. Her mind will be fine, just some psychological damage; but isn't that to be expected where you are concerned?**_

Growling venomously, I retort. _Where __**you**__ are concerned, is what I believe you were meaning to say._

_**Whatever you say, Johnny-boy! **_Scarecrow chortles, binding and gagging me in the back of my own mind. How? I try not to dwell on belief that my alter ego can do as he wishes in my mind, so I allow him to take me over, giving him a few, choice restraints as I do so: no killing or permanent damage.

_Five minutes, Scarecrow. Then I want you to give us __**both**__ some peace._

_**Whatever you say, Johnny-boy! **_Echoes mockingly once more and in that moment everything turns black. And red.

...

When Jonathan (_me, __**I**__, curse this confusion!_) finally regains my body, ribbons of rouge cover the young woman's skin; although the Scarecrow is quick to laugh off my –admittedly unusual- concern.

_**Don't you get it Johnny? I **_**let **_**you back, you can't fight me off! You're too soft Johns; after all, if you had **_**really**_** wanted to what-? **_**Protect**_** her? **_Scarecrow scoffs at the idea, tugging at the bloodstained seams around his fingers and... mouth? _**Then you would have **_**allowed**_** me play earlier. I'm **_**much**_** gentler when I'm calm.**_

_You have never been gentle; never mind calm! You're going to leave Cara out of this from now on... otherwise she will defiantly contact the police- problematic do you not think, Scarecrow? In fact, I'm shocked that she has not __**already**__ contacted the police... _Scowling at the pooling blood around the brunette's body, I consider the reasoning behind her distinct lack of self-preservation and none-existent civic duty to have me put behind bars. _Stockholm Syndrome? _Scarecrow sniggers, nodding his agreement and flaring my anger with his pleased expression. _Scarecrow I would appreciate you doing as I say, like we would __**before**__ getting into this mess. Either keep out of my way and let me stitch up our host; or –so help me- I shall-!_

_**You'll **_**what**_**, Johns? Hit me? Keep me locked away in the back of your mind? Sedate me? Ha! We're the same Johns and you know it! You'll do well to remember that when your lady friend wakes up and you need to explain. If she turns violent on us or tries to phone the cops… well, you know where to find me.**_

At that I swore, cursing the Scarecrow, whose chuckling spoke volumes of his blatant amusement. Yet the fiendish brute relaxes the tension of his presence in my mind to a hum of quiet discomfort as I cut and tear strips of cloth from various towels I can find packed away –rather neatly- into draws and cupboards about the apartment.

That was step one. Step two of making sure that the girl doesn't bleed to death before I bandage her is going to be trickier. I need a needle and some thread. Preferably some anaesthetic too.

* * *

Something is sliding down my throat.

"Drink." Commands a masculine voice. "It's just water, the drug is still too potent in your blood, it needs to be diluted. Drink." _Jonathan... Crane._ My body seems to be acting on autopilot, gulping down the water pressing at my dry lips, whilst my mind rebels to even the presence of this man. How dare he continue to hurt me even after we had agreed to 'four golden rules' of his stay here! I hadn't even tried to phone the police, taking pity on the broken man; although the idea seems a lot more attractive now.

Despite my fear of only seeing a black oblivion upon opening them, I attempt to lift my eyelids, **needing** to be able to see what Crane is doing. Yet a dull, throbbing ache from all over my body prevents me from continuation.

_Funny, I recall this happened before._

_But never again! Crane has got to go._

_

* * *

_

Keeping half an eye on the sleeping Crow as I sit reading the works of Oscar Wilde, I feel pleasantly blissful; despite Scarecrow's mumbled plotting in the far reaches of my awareness.

'_The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it intensely. _

_All art is quite useless.' _

Silently smiling at the last line, I wonder idly of what Cara must think of Wilde's definition. The sadist within me wants to force her to accept that her old profession of making 'beautiful' things for people was a waste of time, accounting for nothing; unlike my old position of power where I could –literally- hold the lives of people in my hands.

_Yet I suppose that we both enjoy what we do,_ I muse, setting the book on the worn wooden bedside table. _And if Cara does apply for Arkham, then I can always help her see my side of things..._ _No,_ I frown, casting my eyes over the sleeping woman's own troubled expression as she experiences –yet another- nightmare, _she would not even __**think**__ to agree with what I did, what I do, to my test subjects... she proved that enough by not using the gas on me- Scarecrow; despite everything he (_**we**_**, Johnny. And you haven't been the most **_**appreciative**_** of 'guests'...**__) has so far done._

Glancing at the thin leather tome, I sigh. _Silly woman has made me curious now... I shall have to wait for her to wake up before reading anything __**too**__ fanciful._ Reaching into the inner pockets of my tattered; albeit only faintly bloodstained now (I had been working on getting out the said stains whilst my host has been sleeping or unconscious), storm grey suit jacket, I receive my personal notebook and mini-pen- perfect for jotting down more... valued patient notes or suddenly inspired hypothesis of how to improve my toxin's effectiveness. Needless to say, I am running out of space already.

My pen graces the smooth, lined paper, quite prepared and bleeding a fine sketch of a question I have prepared mentally to ask Cara: _I already know that physical closeness frightens you, how about mental? Is this what causes your rapid changes of emotion around me, you fear having me 'in your mind'?_ Involuntarily I shiver at the thought of her fearful expression as I ask her, _'do you fear me?'_

Glancing self-consciously at the oblivious woman, I turn away my electric gaze, closing my eyes, fantasying and settling deeper into the same carved oak chair I had pulled through last time I had taken care of her.

First, I would watch her face, the dilatation of her eyes from fear... or attraction, as I open my arms wide and beckon her to me- this would have to be on her own terms; not Scarecrow's.

But then again, what scares a crow more than anything?

Hesitantly she will step, unsure; albeit not from imagining that Scarecrow could suddenly revel in my lack of control and harm her once more. No, she will be nervous because Cara has never done this before. And she never will with another man, for once she comes to me I will not be letting go anytime soon.

I had been betrayed before. I had made sure it would not happen again.

An urgent knock jerks me out of my dreaming.

_Am I not to have any peace?_

The knocking becomes louder.

I sigh, getting to my feet and walking out of the warm bedroom into the corridor. _Apparently not._

Opening the front door by a mere fraction, a familiar female voice begins to demand answers as she pushes her way into the apartment past me. I **let** her obviously. Scarecrow snickers a negative, as her windswept, dark coffee hair passes just under my nose.

"It's just past half-eight and Cara **still** hasn't called to say she's okay, where is she?" Izzy –Isabelle- asks, folding her arms across her chest, an action I note with interest.

"You feel threatened." Watching the way her wide (_but not in fear... they seem to be naturally so_), dark lashed eyes glance to the side then back at me, I feel a smirk tug at my lips: she **is** afraid. But an expert at hiding it...

"Are you going to answer my question or not? **Where** is Cara?" Hissing the question with so much malice that her knuckles turn white as they clench into sharp fists, Isabelle glares searchingly at me, hunting for the answer. "If you've hurt her again, I **swear** I'll kill you. Slowly."

_**Are you going to take that, Johnny? The toxin is still where you left it, take her to our hurt little Crow and whilst her back is turned-!**_

"I assure you that will not be necessary." Sparing a smile at the other psychologist (the last time I checked, the Arkham cleaning staff do not wear suits...), I lead the way towards Cara's room. That answer had been for **both** my headaches. Rather than opening the door for the brunette (since the said door is currently lying against the opposite corridor wall, thanks to my **necessary** barging it down earlier), I step aside to allow Isabelle to enter first.

"Glad to see you left some lights on," she jokes, her eyes swiftly swerve to the shifting, sleeping figure on the bed. "What the-!" A strangled noise later and after the muffled clipping of heels upon the ruby carpet, and Isabelle is moving away the bloodstained sheets to reveal the extent of her friend's injuries. Bandages cover both arms completely, her torso and back are also bound in the makeshift bandages; although only around the middle. Pulling away the rest of the duvet, I try to keep the relief from my face as Isabelle expresses her own: at least her legs are fine.

Scarecrow snickers, taunting me in the back of our mind. _**At least she can run...**_

With deliberate slowness, the stained white duvet is replaced and –with one last anxious glance- the navy suited woman brushes past me and into the living room, giving me a fierce look to follow.

"You **hurt** her," stopping just short of the aged leather of the sofa, Isabelle repeats with a barely retrained shout, "you fucking **hurt** her!"

Amused at the reaction I am receiving, I shake my head, chuckling.

"No, **Scarecrow** hu-"

"Don't give me this bullshit, you flammable idiot! I told you," taking short, fuming breaths, the woman advances, I quirk an eyebrow, nonchalantly reaching into my suit for a syringe. "If you hurt her again, I'll kill-!"

At her vigorous punch, I dodge (made a master of such an art from my school days) stepping inwards to avoid a second, I expose my weapon with a flourish and rest it contently against the pale, quivering (although from anger or fear I cannot tell) skin of her neck.

Scarecrow whoops in the back of my head, urging me on; although I block him out, out of my still smouldering fury for what he had done to **my** host earlier.

Sighing exasperatedly, I lean forward and whisper into her ear, making sure that the threat in my hushed voice is not an idle one.

"Do you know what this is, Isabelle?"

Shaking her head as little as possible, so as not to be 'accidently' injected, she confirms my suspicions.

"This a sedative of my own making, something which has been used on your dear friend already by-"

"-Scarecrow?" She finishes... or asks. I frown; _does she not work with the mind? How can she not be able to tell who is in control? Ah, __**fear**__, or course._ Shivering delightedly, I swiftly ponder what to do next: _continue with my plan or..._

_**... let me play? **_

_Continue with my plan. _

"No, this is Doctor Crane speaking. Honestly, I thought that you work with people like me every day! Perhaps I am mistaken...?"

Another cautious shake.

"No? Oh well, back to what I need to tell you." Pausing to wet my lips, I resume. "This sedative works by shutting down –one-by-one- my patient's sensory functions. Memories and recollections of people can also become cross-wired and confused also. **This** is what caused Cara to lose consciousness. That was when Scarecrow took a knife and slid it gently-"

"Shut up! Just **stop** this!" Isabelle snaps, pulling away from my grip; yet not daring to move her neck. "What do want from saying this? My fear? You can't have it." She laughs, a harsh, mocking laugh. Instinctively I clench my jaw and press harder with the syringe. She stops immediately.

"Good. Now that I have your **full** attention," _**Goodness Jonny, **_**calm down; otherwise**_** I think you might start seeing red, real soon! **_"I would like to press into you just how much sway I have over your friend: she has been hurt in many ways, some of which have caused people seemingly far stronger than her to be broken, crushed; yet here she is. Bloody and unconscious and yet still alive and –more impressively- **sane**. I even believe that I would be able to unleash Scarecrow upon her with a canister of toxin and **still** she would accept an apology from me. Now tell me, why do you worry for her? It is obviously her will to have me as a guest here. What business do you have to-?"

"You obviously don't know Cara all that well," I grind my teeth in response, _of course I know her! I have only read her dream diary, subjected her to fear gas, probed her subconscious and-!_ "she doesn't take well to **wife-beaters**. I bet she only helped you because she felt **pity** for you, lying so helpless –dying- in the snow! I bet she'll throw you out soon, since she's afraid of mak-!" Hearing Isabelle's jaw shut tightly at the mention of one of Cara's fears spiked my interest to-

_**-unhealthy levels?**_

"I suggest that you finish that sentence."

"No." _I have to admire the woman's determination... A pity that I want answers, however._

"I can and **will** kill Miss Crow using the most **excruciating** methods possible, and then **you** unless you finish that sentence."

A light shake of the head accompanied with a stifled laugh. "If you really wanted to kill Cara, you would have done so already." Furrowing my brows together tightly, I glare at the young woman's –still shaking- neck and the deadly still needle threatening to pierce it. _Whatever can she mean by that?_

"No one –except me- would miss her in the **country**, never-mind just Gotham! Her entire family lives in England; most people in this apartment block are way on some holiday for at least another eight days," _Eight days? The note stuck on the fridge claims that the group will be away for about twelve days... I have been here for just four days? Feels more like a week at least..._ "And she doesn't even have any work –yet- where she can be missed! You could have **easily** killed Cara and gotten away with it!"

_**The lady's right, Johns. So the real question is... why isn't she dead? Although **_**we**_** already know the answer to that one don't we...?**_

_Hush, Scarecrow._

"I want to recover from my last escapade; not have to lug about a corpse or a screaming woman. Regardless," I raise an eyebrow, once more leaning close to unsettle the woman, "I'm a **gentleman**."

_**Could have fooled me...**_

_Oh, __**hush**__._

"Right," Isabelle sighs, as I finally let go of her jacket and give her some space; although I do keep the sedative in clear view: I do not want to fight her after all. "And I suppose you wouldn't be **gentlemanly** enough to turn yourself in?"

"No," I laugh lowly, "because that would be **idiotic**."

Isabelle shrugs. "Fair enough. How about a deal?" Nodding my willingness to listen, she continues calmly, "I won't call the cops as long as –for as long as you are under her roof- you don't hurt Cara anymore... Deal?"

"How do you know that I will not harm her?" Interrupting her instantaneous rebuttal, I steam ahead, "This is not a question of wherefore or not **I** shall harm Cara; more of wherefore or not my alter ego will."

"You struggle with control?" Cocking my head, I can see the woman more for the psychologist she is with her serious, thoughtful expression and level tone of voice.

Too bad I am far more apt at these mind games.

"No. I struggle only with my desire for research. As you full well know, fear fascinates me. And now," gesturing a hand whilst turning my body in the direction of the corridor, I conclude: "I think our conversation over."

"But you haven't agre-!" she resists; despite moving out of the room and into the corridor as I advance behind her, giving her a modest push to help her on her way.

"Always a pleasure to speak with a fellow professional," forcing my voice to sound cheerful in order to bamboozle Isabelle and throw her from just how close her insightful comments have struck. "Although I would like some time to rest, I have been rather preoccupied with keeping your friend from **bleeding to death**, you understand?" Wrenching open the thick, oak front door, I make sure that Isabelle is quite clear of it before slamming and locking it shut once more.

_**Finally, that's over now. At least we'll have someone on the inside to mess with if we ever get caught again.**_

Mollified by the chipping footfall coming from the other side of the door, I ignore Scarecrow's chatter as a stifled yelp erupts from the bedroom. _Cara must have tried to get up..._

_

* * *

_

_Perhaps getting out of bed straight away wasn't the best idea... _Pawing weakly at the fuzzy (in both texture and in sight, thanks to my lack of glasses at the present) carpet, I eventually manage to push myself upwards into a sitting position, leaning with my back against the cast-iron frame of the bed.

A similarly blurred, bandaged hand presents itself in front of me.

"You should rest, the drug may not be active in your system anymore; but you must rest." _Crane sounds... worried about something... wait, some to do with...?_

"W-why are my arms and my abdomen bandaged?" I ask, more than simply alarmed at the sight. _Oh, I have bad feeling about this..._

"You don't-? Oh of course," Catching himself, Crane sighs as a soft chuckle passes through him, "**both** of us we unconscious..." trailing off, the implications of what Jonathan has just said sink in like the jaws of a feral, ravenous wolf.

"What did he-? What did Scarecrow do?" My throat feels dry.

Instead of answering, Jonathan pauses, and finally leans down to my height and begins to unravel the bandages (_are those... towels?) _on my right arm.

I see what he uncovers and an overwhelming disgust is my only reward.

"**Get out."** I breathe, not trusting myself with anything louder; not wanting to howl at him.

"Cara," his blue eyes catch my own in a way which may have once made me hold my breath in a nervous anticipation, if I were not consumed by rage at the present that is.

"I want you to leave. **Now.**" I repeat with more force this time, daring the man with my eyes to resist again.

Apparently the message doesn't quite reach Jonathan.

"You know that **I** would never-" Sounding annoyed at my apparent lack of consideration for his side of the story (_and –what? - is that __**desperation**__ I can hear?_), Jonathan, no... **Crane**, moves to rebind my gruesomely carved arm when I pull my arm from between his –dare I say careful? - grip on my arm.

Not quite the best course of action.

Stilling tears of pain (_I will not allow myself to look vulnerable around him, that fiendish coward, picking on someone who can't fight back properly!_), words fall from my mouth before my brain can comprehend the situation I am currently trapped within.

"So Scarecrow can make the wounds and that's **bad**; but it's **okay** for you to throw salt into them when I object to 'treatment'?" Expecting another glare, I cringe unintentionally, glancing to the –suddenly very interesting- carpet and wishing that it would either swallow Crane whole or set him alight.

"Cara?" _Strange,_ my posture relaxes by a fraction as I itch to scrutinize Crane's body language, _he sounds... civil? No, that can't be it, placid? No, no... he just sounds different, so-_

Fingertips grace my cut arm, trailing along the –once blooded- letters and the odd few medical white stitches, there to hold the less well sliced letters (such as the ragged 'S's) together.

_-warm._

"I don't want to hurt you –hush now, just listen to me- I know that we haven't been... the best of guests; although I can assure you that I am going to be fully in control from now on."

"That's what I'm afraid of," the words are out of my mouth before I realise what a stupid choice of wording I have just used. Grudgingly, my eyes meet the gleaming, anticipating blue orbs of Crane: _probably excited by the prospect of plunging deeper into my mind... gosh, I need rest. Or a strong drink; probably both._

Unfortunately, my suspicions are affirmed.

"You fear me being in control; rather than Scarecrow?" The queer glimmer in his eyes as he mentions his favoured topic, his obsession, is rapidly becoming a little more than simply distracting. It is plainly unnerving and I'm sure Crane is fully aware of the fact.

"I don't want to-" _You both scare me. I just can't tell when __**you**__ will hurt me 'though... at least I know what Scarecrow wants- he's so straightforward. You just... twist..._

"Oh," starts the doctor, carefully finishing rewrapping my arm, before sneering down at me as he shifts his weight to give us both some space, "you're **afraid** of confessing your fears to me. You think that I would warp them and subject you to them, am I correct, Cara?"

_Stop using my name like you're a friend! It sounds more like a __**threat**__ coming from you-! You- you are quite handsome really... even with that unflattering expression. __**Frack!**__ Stupid female __**hormones**__ betraying my self-preservation drive..._

"I, er, I may have left the oven-" _He has just come from the kitchen! That's where my unconscious body was before!_ "-never mind!" _Holy-! Was that a __**squeak**__? The situation is far worse than I thought... damn this being female... he is not attractive, he's crazy, he's crazy..._

"Crane, I'm not afraid of you!" I blurt out, eyes flickering about the room; at my bandages (_Crane __**has**__ ruined my towels! Okay, for the sake of saving my life but still..._), then at the man himself.

Cocking his head and scrutinising me in such a way that I feel more like a slide under a microscope than a person, Crane drops his readable, human sneer for a blank, expressionless, frozen look.

"Why?" Unable to hear anything akin to any emotion I know of in his flat, dead tone, I sigh once and answer unwaveringly; ignoring the alien heat rising in my cheeks as our contrasting eyes keep contact. _What the hell is that...?_

"You told me that you'll be in control from now on; I cannot trust you since you broke the very same promise before, but for some reason I'm not afraid of you anymore: I know enough about you –I think- to not be afraid."

The dark haired man smiles fractionally, unmoving.

"You know **nothing**."

Stunned by the candidness of his statement, I feel myself stare, and then laugh nervously in slight hysteria as Crane doesn't respond.

"You fear not knowing and you still know **nothing** about me. What you **think** you know, Cara, is that I am a weak, pitiful doctor, who simply cannot control his alter ego –my darker side- and often finds himself at the mercy of the said ego. Furthermore, you believe that I am actually a kind-hearted man," a bark of laughter from the –otherwise motionless- speaker makes me jump suddenly, a movement which Crane's glacial eyes glimmer with interest at, "do you really think that Scarecrow and I are not similar in many ways? Do you think that we **care** about what happens to our **victims**?"

"I'm alive," I whisper, not intentionally whispered of course; but the tension in the air combined with the mind numbing gaze of Scare-Crane is stifling.

The newly christened Scare-Crane waves a gaunt hand, tearing it lazily through the air.

"You are... different." And that seems to be all he (_they?_) want to say upon the issue. "If we were not in any way similar to the other –Scarecrow and I- then one of us would surely become dominant absolutely and... Well, the point is we both coexist, revolving around fear, as does the world in fact! Fear drives everything, Cara. Everything! Even you are governed by fear and I can prove it-!"

_Enough. I need to stop him before something worse happens... something time won't be able to heal; unlike my arms or torso. Or neck or wrists or..._

"Crane," asserting that my legs are able to move once more, I stiffly rise to my feet; unfortunately so does Crane, that much quicker than me in his healthier state with his eyes glinting inquisitively, waiting patiently, impatiently, eagerly for my next move. "I-I still want you to leave. Enough is enough, you're no longer in danger of d-dying anytime soon, so you should go before I phone the police. I will not warn you again." Despite the few tremors in my threat, I am pleased with the calmness which rings in my voice and the lack of shaking from my abused body. Crane however, sighs in what sounds like-

_-disappointment? _My brows furrow with distaste._ Oh, did I __**bore**__ him again?_

"Understand this: I cannot abide with interruptions, so far I have been patient of such things; but now I-"

"-will leave?" I finish, yet regret it immensely when the doctor's glacial eyes narrow into **blade**-like slits of a frozen hell.

_Oh, __**bugger.**_

"You don't get it do you?" Dropping my eyes to the blurred ruby carpet thanks to the sheer malevolence dripping from Crane's voice, I notice that my glasses are on the edge of the bedside table, reaching to slip them on as Scare-Crane continues, I do not notice the change in the way the man speaks until refocusing upon his arrogant, aggravated features.

"... should be thanking me on hand and knee for **saving your life!** Now you can't wait for me to leave; or should I convince you otherwise using your cleithrophobia, little Crow?"

Glee. Pure glee is what I can see at the mention of my phobia.

_Oh my,_ slinking left (from being in front of the bed into the open space of my cluttered room), I scan my eyes over Scare-Crane's predatory stance, _this can't be good..._

"Thanking you? No Crane, this makes us even, square. Now **please** leave."

Cocking his head to one side as if considering my demand, Crane smiles a slow, 'I'm going to tear you apart' smile. He is between me, the door and an uncertain freedom.

"No."

Letting out a small, frustrated noise, I make loose, painful fists and assert a step towards the taller man.

Desperation can do strange things to a person.

"I said **leave**, Crane. This is my home and you aren't welcome here anymore, thanks for being such an abusive, big-headed, **impolite** guest; but now it's time to leave. **Out. Now. **Goodbye." _If looks could kill... _Shivering at the dead glare boring into my skull, I –regardless- take another two steps towards Scare-Crane, loose my nerve at his lack of further response; even as he **must** realise that I am threatening to attack him, and run at him.

Oh God, I've never done something so stupid in all of my life.

Without actually punching me per-say, a wholesome agony ripples through my right arm just before reaching its designated (and unreached) target of Crane's diaphragm. The villain had caught my arm and had _–and still __**is**__, damn-it! -_ squeezing it where the cuts are with a terrible, medical accuracy.

Unable to prevent my cry of pain from breaching my quivering lips, I stifle it onto my shoulder, whilst my left hand betrays my facade by fisting the torn jumper I am wearing at the collar.

"Painful, isn't it?" He asks needlessly, whilst retaining both his air of indifference and of somewhat mild annoyance.

"Let go of me!" Growling as I dig my fingers into the underside of his wrist, Crane applies more pressure pitilessly until another cry of pain hisses from between my clenched teeth and my short nails cease their attack attempt.

The silence between us now is unbearable. Yet all I can really focus upon is how unpleasant life has been since moving across the Atlantic; _maybe I should have not moved to a city? A nice farm town would have much more homely, where the only scarecrows I would have known about would be the none-moving kind in corn fields, scaring away the-_

"...Crow?" _–s._ "Can you hear me? Crow? Cara?" My eyes must have given away some form of recognition or something, because **Crane** sighs and plunges into some sort of speech... something I really don't care for right now. I just want to reflect on where my life when so wrong –recently- to cause all of this trouble...

Strangely enough, almost everything I've tried to do since arriving in Gotham has been a failure: my art hit a 'bump' four days in after moving (the day before meeting Crane, he must be a bad luck charm or something...), some of my gear got damaged on the move, no-one except Jay, Becca and Martha will be friendly with me; but Martha keeps trying to feed me curry...

... And now Crane, Jonathan-bloody-Scarecrow-Crane, is not leaving my apartment! My Karma can't be **that** bad can it? I helped him, saved his life, and that was all I really wanted to do; but no, Fate's a sadistic bitch. Isn't she?

Having sensed that I wasn't listening in the slightest, Crane had stopped talking, scanning and mentally noting the expressions which must have been flickering across my face as I wondered.

There's another thing wrong with life (or more specifically **me**): any emotion I feel just flickers immediately across my face, making me a **nearly** impossible liar and a sucker for watching sad films.

_Thanks for the reminder, Crane..._

"A-are you quite done watching me?" I snap, both uncomfortable and angry; yet dismally aware of the fingers posed ready to crush the delicate, bandaged wound of my trapped arm.

Chuckling darkly, Scare-Crane looms over me, a smile on his lips which does not quite reach his calculating, arctic eyes.

"I will not be done with observation for a while yet, Cara; but I can let go of your arm, if-!" Closer still, the demented man seems to relish in the fact that –despite clearly wanting to- I do not move away from his advance this time, "-you promise to be good."

"I p-promise," I echo swiftly, unable to take much more of having him so close. My old anger –despite the carvings upon my bruised arms and midsection- now wearing off and a new, recently familiarised, emotion taking its place. Fear. "Aren't y-you going to let g-go now?"

"Of course, how silly of me. There, Cara, your arm is quite safe now." Drawing the said limb close to my rapidly rising and falling chest, I turn my gaze back up to Crane, thankful for the distance he puts between us.

Inspiration strikes. Scare-Crane puts distance between us when **he** wants to; I can do the same. It's all just a matter of confidence and –on my part- devious plotting...

Opening his lips (_they look so dry... really, I should try and- __**No!**__ Think the plotting; not teenage girl, giggly, petty thoughts!_) to speak, I take the opportunity to interrupt him before he starts, to avoid any further frustration on his part. Although he appears masterful at concealing his emotions, I have the nagging worry that Crane is still annoyed with me from earlier; despite the way that –logically- it is I who should be trying to do him harm.

"Oh, Crane... Jonathan... I-I think I might be ill..." rubbing my arms just above where the home-made bandages finish, I give a small groan of (real; albeit now unconcealed) pain, bending inwards and pressing lightly against my stomach.

Starting at the unexpected feel of a lanky hand against my forehead, a titter comes from the man and I shudder, expecting the worst from his reaction.

_Crane's only a __**doctor**__ after all; I bet he can spot a fake sickie a mile away!_

"Hm, you do have a mild temperature... do you have any medicine in the house?" _Please don't sound so concerned! You're going to make this unbearable! Just stay as freakish as before and __**please**__ make up your mind already!_

Without meeting his eyes by feigning pain, I shake my head, that same, alien feeling heating my cheeks once more. _Funny, what could-?_

Realisation dawns.

_Oh, God no. I'm __**blushing**__._

That would explain the temperature.

"S-sorry, I..." counting the amount of towel-scraps Crane had bound my left arm in proves to be good enough distraction from the hand –still- on my burning forehead.

The hand recedes. Thank goodness.

"I cannot risk a visit to the chemist, you understand, don't you Cara?" Blinking once at the obviousness of his temperate statement (_of course Crane, the Scarecrow, couldn't just pop-out the apartment without suspicion! There goes my only hope..._) and at the wavering sincerity in his voice, like Crane is trying to bury the emotion leaking into it; I inch my face up to meet Crane's.

Apparently, some call it the puppy-dog expression.

"Then again," he backtracks, coughing into his curled fist as he briefly turns to the side, "I **do** need to visit one of my old warehouses... I might have some toxin left which has not been destroyed by the Bat or police as of yet."

The sound of footsteps has never been quite so satisfying.

"I will return at four a.m. should I not be at the door by then, I will have been apprehended." Walking through the empty door frame of my bedroom, I take the initiative and follow Crane into the hall. But slowly, and with a groan to keep up my act. _Mustn't get carried away..._

"Are you taking a key or...?"

"No. Nothing which will lead anyone back to you. I will need a safe house for next time, and since making a brief exploration of the surrounding area, I feel it's safe to say that I will know where to find you."

Taking that moment to look back at my shiver (_so that's why I saw his shadow pass by my door a few nights ago_), Crane seems to stifle a chuckle with another cough, resting his hand against the front door.

"Wait for me."

_Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry... Why cry? He's only __**using**__ your apartment as a safe house and you for a test subject!_

"O-okay,"

With a cool, final wave of his intense eyes over my face and across the bandaged wounds littered upon my battered body, Jonathan- **Crane**, smiles.

_Oh, I can't cave in now... Please, just stop that._

"If you don't," dropping his rich voice down to an amused, joking whisper he resumes as he matches my height, "I may have to **scare** you."

Laughing softly at his own (_definitely not funny, no not at all..._) joke, Crane smoothly slips through the door as he draws it open, clicking it shut behind him.

_Crane has no key and he's locked out of my apartment._

A grin spreads across my face and my –faking ill- posture straightens.

_No more pain, no more fear..._ A chipper laugh breaks through my elevated, blissful quiet, as I turn to go the bathroom, grab a shower; oh, maybe a long, hot bath, and examine the rest of my injuries. Curiosity can be as much of a blessing as it is a curse! As I had –unfortunately- discovered with-

"Cara?" Freezing with my back turned away from the door, I slowly turn as Crane continues to ask to be let back in.

He had forgotten his suit jacket.

"Cara? I **know** you can hear me," the rapping of knuckles against the door is more than enough to make my current shivering a tremble. "Let me in."

"No, Crane. I asked you to leave and so now you have-"

**Bang. **The door shivers at the impact of his fist.

"You **planned** this?" If Crane had been fuming before, then now he is a demon of wrath itself. Everything about my plan is crumbling. If Crane wants me dead, I will be dead before the night is over. _Speaking of which, that would give me..._

**Bang!**

"I will count to five. If you have not opened this door by five then I will assure you that you will regret not heeding my warning, little Crow. **Five.**"

_About three hours, it's already nine o'clock._

"**Four."** Menacing and deadly do his words ring out, the door usually blocks out most noise... he must be shouting right next to it. He doesn't fear being caught. He can handle anyone with that gas. My shaking fingers drag down the front of my throat.

"**Three."**

"Scarecrow," I yell at the door, imagining his crude, taunting, plainly **abnormal** mask, pulled up in a sick grin, like he is enjoying a joke no-one else could understand... or the fear people undoubtedly fear upon seeing it and just **knowing** that it will be all which they will be able to see when locked in a cell at Arkham whilst screaming the name over and over, like some unholy prayer or symphony.

My thoughts continue to spin wildly as I resume shouting.

"Scarecrow! Just leave me alone! Haven't you already-!"

"-made my **mark?**" Flinching and clutching at my trembling forearms, Scarecrow continues regardless, "I think I would like to include some more, more **permanent** –and mental- marks when I see you again, my dear!"

"**Liar!** Don't call me that!" I bellow; although the pitch of my voice edges towards a screech or a... scream.

_Oh, bugger._

For some reason my hands are covering my mouth and I cannot move –petrified- before the door and –inevitably- the man standing behind it.

"I shall warn you **one more time**, either open this door in the **next** five seconds or I will make your nightmares a reality."

"Been there, done tha-that. You've gassed me already, remember?"

"I do... and what's more I would enjoy further exploration of your innermost demons and fears."

_So neither Scarecrow nor Crane can decide on wherefore or not to civil or toxin-happy... although Scarecrow definitely leans towards the latter._ Shuddering, I change tactics.

"Please... as much as I like helping people, this has got to stop, just please think about what your victims go through and-!"

"**Time's up.** I warned you Miss Crow, now suffer the consequences."

Without the luxury of hearing his footfall, I take Crane's last line to be a 'goodbye' of sorts and... and...

_I'm free? _Rubbing the cold sweat from my arms, then scratching my neck, I stare for another moment of disbelief at the oak door.

Removing myself from the said door and making a beeline for the living room (there's no way I can sleep with Crane's... Scarecrow's, threat still ringing in my ears), something unfamiliar catches my eye next the TV set in front the, **his** sofa.

"Oh, Jay..." That 'something to really worry about', my wonderful landlord had been talking about on his note all those days ago (a lifetime, really...) are horror films.

If Martha could taunt me with spicy food, Jay would taunt me with director's cut versions of SAW, Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Final Destination...

_Body horror,_ shivering, I finger the battered case of one of the films in the pile, _makes me feel sick._

But what can scare me **now?**

Slotting the DVD into the player, I settle back into his sofa as the trailers play through.

Despite the gory clips, the smell of aged leather and of something else, something more refined, settles me as the menu screen is set to 'play movie' and the opening scene starts.

A second later and the scent reminds me of Jonath- Crane, just before he had stolen a kiss from me. All for the sake of humiliating me and getting 'reliable information' of course.

"Freak," hissing the word with all the distaste I can possibly muster for the man, I glare at the silver television, all the while being irrationally sorry for having such a keen nose.

On the screen, the title appears and soon after (although I'm not entirely sure how long after, since the majority of the film so far I have been hiding behind the nearest thing I could grab... that being Crane's forgotten, storm grey jacket, that is. _Why can't he just leave me alone? Oh no, don't let the killer see you! No! Stupid girl! Run!_) a heart-wrenching shriek resonates throughout the scantily lit room.

The phone rings.

"**Holy-!"** Cursing whilst slipping –much too precariously- from the warmness and comfort of the musky smelling couch, I swiftly kill the television (_okay, maybe I am still just a tad frightened by films; despite having survived Scarecrow_) and pull the receiver to my ear.

"Hello, Cara Crow speaking." _Who calls at... 10:42 at night? Scammers?_

"C-Cara?"

"Izzy? You sound terrible, boy trouble?"

"Sort of,"

I grin, rolling my eyes dramatically. _Again?_

"Who?"

"Crane."

My grin drops, as does my jaw- struck dumb by shock. Breathing? None existent. Gasping? Oh, yes.

_How did he find Izzy? _Something tenses within me, tugging at my fear, growling protectively. _If he's hurt her..._

The sin black receiver shakes slightly in my quivering, questionable grip (on more things than one at the present...), the muffled sound of a man –Crane- speaking drone wordlessly through the speaker.

"C-Cara," both of our breathing is suddenly unhealthily heavy, just dying to ease the pressure somehow from our current... situation. "Don't do a-anything he says, it's a trap! Listen to me! It's a tra-!"

The line goes dead.

"No..." staring in disbelief at the phone, I slam it suddenly back into place, scarcely able to halt myself and not fall to my knees, believing my friend, Izzy, to have been... _**no,**__ she's not..._

"No," I whisper again, short nails dragging blunt, scarlet lines down the sides of neck as sheer helplessness threatens to overwhelm me. "Please, she hasn't had anything to do with this!"

The phone rings for a second time.

Snapping it up to my eager, apprehensive ear, my immediate response is quite un-noteworthy, courtesy of shock.

"H-hello?"

A sigh and a threat of 'I shall only say this **once**' later and Scare-Crane is down to business (if you will) immediately.

"Seeing as your friend cannot follow a simple instruction, I shall have to do it myself: you have **one hour** to get here (Isabelle's apartment naturally); otherwise I will use the toxin, which the Batman failed to recover in one of my more... obscure bases to break dear Isabelle's mind. Then yours. Oh yes, bring a spare key for your apartment, I don't think you will want to 'accidently' lock me out again once I'm finished with you, hm?"

Click.

The receiver literally falls from my horrified hand. Fear consuming my will to move.

"Move, Cara! Got to save Izzy! Put on some clothes and get going!" _And don't forget the spare key._ I mentally add, as the world begins to blur violently.

My breathing hitches to a series of silent howls of anguish.

_Not __**now**__! Why is Crane's drug kicking in again now? I need to help Izz-!_

The taste of salt stings my –unconsciously bitten- lips.

Tears. Tears are blinding me.

But tears can't help anyone.

Stripping as I lurch forward towards the broken door of my room, I hurriedly dress into something easily put on: a t-shirt and skirt (without tights; but still with the other two essentials of course), anything else would take too long.

I haven't the time to waste.

Lacing up my sneakers against my bare feet, I decide that –whereas my upper body clothes mean very little in this situation- what I wear on my feet will be of the upmost importance: I can see there being a lot of running involved in this... predicament. Ballet flats –although faster to slip on- are pathetic for running or even fighting (or so one would imagine) in.

Sneakers it is then.

Pausing only to snatch up my extra keys on top of the one already in my coat pocket, I fly through the door and into the waiting arms of the cold, black night.

Hopefully my scooter will be up for a run.


	11. Breaking and fixing

**Chapter Eleven: Breaking and fixing.**

"_The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed.__" _–Carl Jung.

The city air may still be bitter with winter's influence; yet I cannot help but feel a deep sense of relief for having it swirl around me: the apartment somehow felt too crowded with both me and Jon- **Crane**, being 'roomies'.

Maybe it has something to do with the fact that there are technically three of us sharing the apartment? Or could it be more to do with the strange way Crane can seem far bigger than his scrawny frame actually is? _Either way,_ I conclude, indicating and drawing to a swift stop in a parking space on my trusty, pastel blue scooter,_ it's annoying. Stupid, professor-y doctor. Wait, that's an oxymoron..._

Snapping the keys to the side, then out of the starter, the groan of the engine dies. It is suddenly very dark.

Unsurprisingly the shiver of unease which trembles up my back brings back the memory of Isabelle's frantic warning, of why I shouldn't be here trying to save her.

_Just like you __**saved **__those thugs?_ Rattling my head to-and-fro at the sarcastic voice in my head, I pass the thought off as being another response to being up so early/late. Again.

_If Crane is such a great psychologist, then surely he knows that I'm not a morning person..._

Anxious to not be caught outside –especially alone- at such an unearthly hour, I cast my eyes across the small, 'residents only' (although in this darkness the sign isn't visible), high-walled car park; fumbling almost blindly with the new, bright yellow, lock I had recently bought for my Precious. Scooter, I mean.

"Shit," swearing under my breath, wincing, as I bend down to pick up the dropped lock, my hand is about to close around it when a foot collides sharply with my side, sending my crouched form sprawling away from my scooter, straight into a concrete wall. With a groan of pain, (_that __**thug**__ caught my bandages!_) I hastily move to get up and defend myself against the assailant.

"Cursing is not very becoming, Miss Crow." My blood runs cold at the sound of his smooth, unusually tense voice. The subtle hint of anger in that voice, however, threatens to make me forget why I have come here.

_I absolutely must save Isabelle!_

"W-where is she?" I demand, much more certainly than I feel.

Crane laughs, stepping into the grey light.

Shock. Heart rate increases. Eyes are –most certainly- dilating. Cold, paling skin. I'm scared.

"Afraid of my mask?" _Sca- no, Crane, Scare-Crane? No, he's either Crane __**or**__ Scarecrow... Think, Cara. Think!_ Crane cocks his head sideways, staring intently at my reactions to his makeshift mask. He laughs again, sounding more than just a little unhinged this time. His fingers, I note, are twitching. "Of course you are, especially after all of the trouble **he** has given you... poor, little Crow, do you want me to end it all for you? Although I will assure you that I shall be the **only** one to talking to you tonight; Scarecrow has already had his share of fun."

"What d-do you mean?" My stomach feels tight, knotting with a sickening, sinking kind of knowing. My mouth feels dry. "Where i-is Isabelle?"

The masked man's glacially cruel eyes glint mischievously for a split second, full of a twisting, devious delight. Crane slips from the slit of light he stands in, morphing into the shadow of the wall I am now leaning heavily against.

Odd. I cannot remember standing up.

"Isabelle is dead."

"What?" I can't get enough air into my lungs, he must be lying: not even a madman would kill somebody, just like that, for being locked out of a stranger's apartment.

_Do strangers kiss each other?_

In the recluse of my mind, I know that the only thing holding me up now is the sturdy pressure of the wall behind my back, and that Crane's hands are pressing next to either side of my stunned face, effectively trapping me between him and the wall. Boxing me in. Controlling.

"She's dead." He whispers, purring the words through the rough burlap of his crude mask. The fraying noose around his neck rests against the front of my frozen body due to the intimacy of his looming position. "And now I am all you have..."

Burlap scratches against my face, the sensation is too rough against my cold, tender skin, the movement is purely possessive, I'm sure, and a means of asserting his sick sense of control.

"G-get off me, Crane, y-you mu-murdering-!"

Catching my hands as they shove against his chest, Crane chuckles sinisterly, not even trying to conceal his... Crane-ness...

He crouches to meet my eyes whilst slipping his hands up the baggy sleeves of my long coat, fingering the sensitive bandages underneath. Chuckling once more at the lack of sleeves, taunting me with his gleaming blue eyes.

_He seems somehow more alive and... himself._ At the retraction of his warmer hands from my skin, an uncontainable shiver wracks my frame. I cannot miss the shimmer of, of something I would rather not see again in his expressive, repressive, eyes.

For a long moment there is nothing. No speech. No pain. Even fear evades me at the present. The only things real to me right now are those eyes.

Those arctic, glinting blues. Chilling: the eyes of a killer. Handsome: all the better to make one forget who they are dealing with.

The hiss of compressed air –of **gas**- surprises me suddenly and automatically, I jump and gasp.

Coughing on the bitter taste, I glance around me for... for...

_Hey, is that a light switch?_

Staring for a brief second at the old looking switch, something tells me that this isn't right. _Before I... was in a car park... _My head shakes, the room spins. _But now I'm in a... hospital? It's too dark. Maybe I can find a doctor, something is wrong here, where are all the people? _

I react, jumping, breathless and wheezing as if I had just run a sprint, at the sound of footsteps in the darkness. I need to move: turn on the lights, the light switch. _Maybe I should wait for a moment for the footsteps to go away? _

The sound doesn't leave; nor do they sound any closer. _How bizarre._ It makes my head hurt, spin, like vertigo. It **hurts**.

"M-move, Cara. Light switch. Press it." The words fall from my mouth as a plea to my confused body, an ill-concealed chuckle plays in my ears. Both near and far away at the same time; yet I can't see anyone, I am alone here, aren't I?

Hesitating isn't helping much.

I shuffle closer to the wall where the switch is, the sound of steady footsteps are still behind me. Glancing anxiously for the light switch on the dimly lit, whitewash –_probably a hospital_- wall, I feel my heart rate increase, thudding desperately against my ribcage.

_There._

Pressing down on the switch (perhaps a little harder and with more haste than strictly necessary), my eye twitches violently as the shadows remain and my eyes, a human's primary sense: sight, is made useless.

_Someone __**must**__ have cut the electrics. It's the only plausible reason. _The paranoid thought toys with my brain, teasing and yet casually solidifying its twisted logic.

_No... Let's just get this over with! _Trembling as my resolve is finally set, my hand falls away from the switch to the side of my body, slightly tense, ready for a fight, rescue or otherwise. I need to move. I just want to escape.

The first step into the darkness is terrifying.

I am in a morgue. _A fracking __**morgue**__!_

"No, no, **no, no, no,** **no!**" A door opens from the bottom of the demonic, long room just as the lights flash on. _This is messed-up! I had just tried to-!_

"Aw, did you try using the old light switch? The new one's over here." The man's voice is scratchy, the burlap cloth over his head hiding whatever expression he wears underneath, I imagine that he would be smirking under that twisting, writhing mask of-

_**Roaches! **_

"**D**-d-**don't come any closer!**" I yell at the smoothly advancing, sick and tormenting doctor (_why else would he be here? No wait what's the name of the people who work with dead people aga- __**Oh please!**__ He's getting closer!_). His feet echo against the blindingly bright walls of the morgue, the draw doors open and close spasmodically revealing the places where the body bags lie filled or eerily empty… a frightfully familiar male voice fills the air with chuckling, taunts and threats, making my ears buzz with the noise. Clamping my hands over my ears in desperation, I feel blood flow, oozing from them, making slick the minute gaps between my fingers; barely able to withhold a moan of susceptibility and discomfort, I bite down on my lower lip, which bleeds too. Before I can stop myself, ruby tears are also bleeding from my squinting eyes (_can't not look, can't not look, I need to save… can't not look, can't not look, who do I need to save? Oh! __**He's getting closer!**__ Can't not look, can't not…_) and I can feel my body weaken from blood loss…

A moment of clarity strikes as my mind rebels to the sudden shift in location and situation. _This __**has**__ to be Crane's toxin! It's getting to me much more than the other chemical he used! Oh-! When did he get me? My chest hurts even more than my head; when did he-?_

_He's getting closer!__** He's getting closer!**_

My second greatest fear: weakness and vulnerability.

"Did you bring what I asked for?" His words scratch at the backs of my hands as they furrow like ticks into my ears. Only able to stare in horror at the swarming mass of roaches, tumbling over the other upon the mask, I try to back away from the masked man in order to save myself. If anyone else **had** been here, they would have been collected and locked in the morgue's many draws long before I arrived. They might even be a **zombie** by now.

Moving my feet after failing twice, I collapse: blood loss has finally taken its toll.

_**Pain!**_ I rasp sharply, struggling against something pulling on my face and body.

Whatever **it** is, I cannot see it.

My third fear: the helplessness of not knowing.

"I said," the roaches draw closer, looming ominously over me as I struggle to escape the invisible **thing** breathing all over me, "do you have what I asked-?"

"**What-!** What do y-you w-w-w-want-?" I wail, swiping uselessly at the waves of slithering, eager, fat roaches as they crawl under my sleeves and skirt; where I would strike one away, three more would appear in its place. A lost cause, a losing battle.

Fourth fear: the inevitable, knowing what will happen and not being able to do **anything**.

A fist catches my off-guard as it wrenches me to my feet, holding me firmly against the medical white walls of the morgue as I begin to pant and wheeze heavily, my own **breathing** suddenly not in my control anymore.

My ultimate fear: not being able to control myself. Causes an aversion to alcohol (and lesser desirable substances) in public if you must know.

"**Never** interrupt me again!" Roars the beast into my face directly, several roaches are flung from the demon at the force of his roar and they burrow into my delicate skin. Tearing their way in.

I scream in agony and then in sheer terror.

"**Stop it!** Get them **off** me! W-why am I here? Please, d-don't do this!" My hands cannot move, heavy and bloodless, they twitch rather than rise and fight against the- the madman and his iron grip. Speaking of which… the man's, **Crane's **fist leaves go of my coat for now, gesturing towards the far end of the blindingly white room.

_No,_ I scowl through my tears, drawing in a shaky breath as I force myself to control my breathing, _this is... a, __**Isabelle's**__ car park..._

_Isn't it?_

"You can give me the key later, for now I think you should see something, or should I say: someone." His coarse (_**why**__ is it coarse...? Mask, of course, the mask..._) sounds thick, laced with... something. I don't like it, can't think. He's a monster. Unwillingly the memory of Crane's gleaming, arctic eyes –when fear is mentioned- resurface. I shudder more violently now. He's enjoying this. I don't want this, make it stop, can't think.

"No," I object quietly, shaking my head (_why are there still __**roaches**__ in my hair?_) "I-I don't w-w-want to s-see who-whoever's th-there, **plea-please!** No m-more! I'll d-do **a-anything!** Ju-j-just **n-not** a-a-any-m-more, p-pl-please!"

The **thing** I can't see starts to breathe even heavier, hungrily, causing me to groan dolefully and inch back. Again, blood loss sends me to the floor and the invisible **thing** touches my leg, _**I swear it did!**_ What else can it be but **it**? Crane, that **Scarecrow**, hasn't moved and I can **still** feel **it** breathing all over me!

I'm scared.

I'm so scared.

I'm so scared that I want to scream.

I'm so scared that I want to scream again.

Screaming doesn't make the **thing** leave. It only makes the car park, the **morgue** darker and the doors of the body-draws swing and flail that more ferociously.

"No! Get the fuck away from me!" The thing's teeth graze my exposed neck, arching away from the lukewarm, moist breath and saliva encrusted fangs, I scream out one last plea as desperation and all-out panic sear across my fading mind. "**Jonathan!** **Help me!**"

Something sharp pricks my neck before the **thing** bites. It's cold and metallic; yet somehow reassuring.

The image of a man in a tattered, worn suit and a crude burlap mask saunter through my head almost cockily invading my thoughts at such a time of chaos and crisis. And yet my cracking, bloody lips can force an empty shell of a smile.

"Th-thank… you…"

The darkness holds me down.

* * *

It had been planned. I was not, am not, going to kill Cara Crow; despite the ease I would have in doing so, courtesy of my perfectly able capabilities and to her ridiculously trusting nature.

Scarecrow chuckles as I straighten up, pocketing the empty syringe whilst I rub the bruise on my leg gained from my alter's 'fun'.

_**Oh Johnny, **_he –_speak of the devil_- purrs both contently and suggestively at once, _**don't tell me you didn't **_**enjoy**_** the feeling of intriguing, ickle Isabelle's fingers prying so **_**helplessly**_** against your hands. You seemed quite eager to do it really... **_**scared**_** that she would have stolen away our little bird from us, maybe? **_He falls into a series of scratchy snickering.

"No." I snap, quickly inspecting the –one seater-, vintage scooter in the dim moonlight. "To answer both of your –**unsupported**- questions, no. And that was **you** who throttled her; not me."

_**Aw, don't be like that Johnny... I only want to make sure that you get what you want... **_Trailing off with a ring of tease in his scratching voice, Scarecrow leans against a shadow (_a __**wall**__?_) in my mind, crossing his straw feet at the ankles and grinning mockingly at me as I retort.

"I already have what I want: that base we –oh hush- **I**, visited had some more of my more potent toxins, a spare suit and enough money to get u- **me**, by for at least a few days." I raise an eyebrow at the keyring hanging from the scooter key as I root them out of the unconscious woman's coat pocket: a miniature notebook with a sensibly waterproof, deep purple, plastic cover. How practical.

_**Read it.**_ Sounding eager, Scarecrow leans forward, his consciousness rubbing against my own curious one.

_Believe me, I intend to._

Glaring at the sudden noise of displeasure from the floor, I unclasp the pop-button fasten and begin to skim read the pages.

_A planner?_

Not much is written on the dates; yet a few birthdays and holiday events are marked.

Nothing of interest really.

_**And yet you take note of her **_**birthday**_**? **_Scarecrow sniggers, as I stuff my own note-book back into my inner suit pocket. I ignore him: my new suit now stinks of smoke and burnt flesh because of him, sometimes I think that –on top of having psychopathic tendencies to name but one- my alter ego is also a pyromaniac. Although I do have to agree that watching the great Batman throw himself from a four story window whilst screaming and on fire **was** amusing.

_**It **_**was**_** the simplest means of disposal of her body. **_Grumbling and making my fingers tingle at the memory, the fascination which held me as the flames ate away at the young woman's flesh, rears its ugly, captivating image to the forefront of my mind's eye.

"Scarecrow..." I warn, revving the scooter's engine with the sort of frustrated energy gained only from a patience tried and exceeded. "You have had enough time to experiment tonight; I need to get Miss Crow home to the apartment. Speaking of which, how did she manage to carry us? I **know** that you would have kept an eye on things."

_**Why don't you let me show you?**_ Almost bouncing in anticipation, Scarecrow's presence seems to swell, expanding and growing like a cancer in my mind. _**I want to **_**help**_** you Johns, I won't even touch the toxin- I swear! **_

_Just tell me how._

_**I **_**want**_** to **_**show**_** you.**_

_I do not care for what you __**want**__. I need you to __**tell**__ me so that I can get Cara... Miss Crow back to the apartment before she wakes up._

_**Both you and I know that it'll be a while before she wakes up... **_An echoing, throaty chuckle vibrates through my body unwillingly. _**Our little-**_

_Stop with the 'our', Scarecrow, and let me out!_

Another infuriating snicker.

_**Okay then Johnny: **_**my**_** little Crow, **_letting a noise of frustration pass through my teeth (although only in my mind), my anger only grows as he ignores my protest,_** won't even notice if I were to do this...**_

Leaving the engine running, whilst the scooter is left on its rickety stand, Scarecrow crouches beside the whimpering Cara Crow, reaching with an agonising amount of slowness towards the underside of her jaw. Stroking the area with a surprising gentleness, he shifts closer, drinking in the slight relaxation of her features until a sort of peace takes over the fear which had previously reined there.

It strikes me, a dangerous trail of thought with a simply unheard of solution: Scarecrow, my darkest shadow, an almost immoral **monster**, is comforting one of my victims, or in this case, **my** Crow.

Internally I growl at the smirk spreading over –what were- my lips, pressing through the scratchy burlap into the woman's ruffled hair. Through the mask I cannot smell anything; although Scarecrow tells me that he's simply hiding her from me.

_Stop messing about and get her onto the scooter. I thought that you were satisfied with your plaything of the night? _I demand, fighting down the irrational feelings of jealousy assaulting me at Scarecrow's antics. **I** want, am needing, control.

_**But why can't I enjoy a little extra, Johns? **_Easing his fingers through the knotted hair, Scarecrow sighs deeply; but –regardless- lifts her up into his arms, carrying her in the direction of the moped. _**But then again I suppose you're right, don't expect this to happen much more however. Now you don't have those annoying drugs to repress me, nor the strength to... oh dear, Johnny-boy, I think you may want to try being a tad more considerate towards me, hm? Or I might start to take back my little toy here...**_

_You are __**delusional**__. What can possibly make you think that Cara is yours? _I scoff, hardily expecting a reasonable answer; only more threats. Instead I receive a haunting chuckle, echoing from my own lips under the mask, as Scarecrow positions himself on the scooter's one and only seat with the smaller Miss Crow in front of him, unconscious and oblivious against his chest.

_**Exactly that: Miss **_**Crow**_**. What power do you have over her? Your pretty blue eyes? Ha! I am the Master of Fear, the **_**Scarecrow**_**. Little Crow is... well, her name speaks for itself, doesn't it, Johnny? No matter how much you **_**want**_** her, she **_**is**_** mine. The power of a name, Johns, is something **_**you**_** don't have.**_

Apparently sated with his argument, Scarecrow relaxes his control over my body just enough for me to kick-off the stand and drive out of the gloomy car park, into the bleak night.

The groaning of the engine, mumbles of 'let me out' and the ominous chuckling from between my smirking, twisting lips, are the only real sounds for miles whilst the city sleeps in fear of what happened in the Narrows ever repeating.

I –_**we**_- had better not disappoint.

...

Somehow none of us die.

Groaning in exhaustion, I lean further back into the aged leather of the couch, as my eyes finally focus onto the television screen in the quirky, thankfully warm, living room. The Gotham Tonight is playing, the situation in the Narrows is 'on-going', the Joker is continuing to cause a ruckus and little else of interest seems to be occurring- for me at least.

"Breaking news!" The reporter exclaims, earning my attention as her blond locks bouncing furiously as she reads from the screen in front of her the story. "A young doctor, Doctor Isabelle Finch-" I snort at the name, Scarecrow joining in from the recluse of my mind with a snide comment about 'birds'. "-was found dead in her apartment a few hours ago when an emergency call came in from Arkham. With no immediate response from the reliable Doctor Finch, an intern was sent to check the situation and as to why the Doctor did not immediately report to the Asylum. However –upon arrival- the intern, who does not wish to be named, found only a burned-out corpse of the unfortunate Finch. The said intern is **still** in therapy, whilst detectives are working on finding the culprit to this horrific attack; although it is believed that –as Doctor Finch treated him- 'Firefly' is the attacker. May we remind everyone to lock **both** your doors and windows before going out or sleeping. Back to you, Fiona."

When nothing more of consequence is revealed, my thoughts begin to wander haphazardly in their drowsy state.

_Luck must be on my side: Firefly, Mr Lynns, probably would have done such an attack, his reasoning abilities have been almost none existent recently... probably due to his lack of medication now that he has escaped Arkham. It cannot be long now before the police recapture him... _Smiling as the memory of Isabelle Finch's final moments wash over me again, Scarecrow murmurs his agreement to my unorthodox response.

But I am too tired to truly care.

Flicking off the silvery TV set, I glance across at the time display on the VCR wired in underneath it.

_3:01a.m. _

_**You had better get some sleep, Johnny-boy, **_Scarecrow chides, his good mood somewhat refreshing compared to the tense, keen to terrify, personality he had been the last time we had been in Cara's apartment. It can only be a matter of time before he feels the need to do something... drastic again.

My fingers twitch suddenly at the reoccurring memory of Doctor Finch's frantic eyes as the life –**her life**- fades from them. I can still remember the look of helpless horror on Cara's face as I –_**we**_- did the same to her.

_She's still sleeping- would not notice a thing; unless I wanted her to of course..._

_**Now who needs to keep them self under control?**_ Scarecrow accuses, chuckling throatily, almost huskily at my musings.

That catches me short. Dragging a gaunt hand down my tired face, I sigh, leaning further back into the soft leather of the couch and slipping off my –slightly scuffed- sin black shoes.

"I'm exhausted, my thoughts are not my own right now." The scent of old leather washes over me. Content, I lower my eyelids, about to fall asleep when my stretching fingers brush something familiar.

My old, tattered, bloodstained suit jacket.

Sliding sideways so that I am both lying across the sofa (with some of my legs hanging off; although not unpleasantly, anything feels comfortable when one is **this** tired) and that my head is resting against the said jacket as a sort of make-shift pillow. I inhale deeply, repositioning myself slightly, to get more comfortable. My jacket smells of her.

_Did she miss me, the silly girl?_

Scarecrow snickers. _**You **_**really**_** must be exhausted... doesn't mean that I won't let you forget this wishful thinking of yours later...**_

My eyes close again. A smile playing upon my slackening lips as sleep takes hold.

_Just because everything you touch breaks soon after._

_**But we're friends aren't we Johns? And friends don't break each other's toys... Johns? Hey Johnny! Listen when I'm talking to you! I getting sick of you ignoring me and-!**_

_You were the one to tell me to get some sleep, so hush, Scarecrow. Tell me if you hear anything._

Without waiting for any further response. I succumb to the Sandman's influence.

* * *

The nightmares had been intolerably vivid and naked of any and all restraints. Nothing in my mind seems safe from fearful connotations anymore. My blissful childhood had even been tainted by the very fear now coursing through my veins.

For a long few minutes I do not even dare attempt at opening my eyes, lest the nightmares materialize once more.

For a few minutes afterwards I try to open them, unable to and warring with the powerful urges to 'remain as still as possible and undetected' by my hyper-alert, petrified body.

Eventually however, will finds a way and my sight is returned.

Everything is dim (the curtains are drawn, the only source of light drains in from the open space where my door used to be, from the hallway); but still much too bright.

Sighing, I reach for my glasses from the book-infested –_must have been __**him**_- bedside table. Slipping them on with a loud grumble of annoyance from my stomach.

_When was the last time I had eaten?_

My gut yowls again.

_Not soon enough._

Making sure to flex my stiff, leaden legs beforehand this time (_I really don't want to let Crane, never mind Scarecrow, hear me fall out of bed __**this**__ time_), I slip out from under the bloodstained sheets and check the time.

_6:16p.m. I cannot –even for the life of me- recall the day._

_Wait, __**bloodstained**__-?_

The fresh –proper- bandages on my arm shift angrily at my sudden spin to look at the ruined white sheets.

_My bandages. The carved arms (actually, I still need to check my left arm and midsection...). Of course... _

_Urgh, the room feels like it's spinning. Balance must have affected by the drug._ I give an exhale of laughter as I stumble to the door and grab the frame. _Maybe I should complain to the management that I can no longer walk in straight lines? _Giggling at the thought, something moves in the darkness of the room behind me.

"Oh, **come on** Cara! I **know** it's Crane's drug now... there's nothing to be afraid of!"

The 'something' in the shaded corners of the prowls closer, moaning as it steps into the light.

A zombie.

I stare dumbstruck.

The zombie lumbers closer still and my body decides what to do before my mind can reason.

I run.

Bare feet pounding upon the bitterly cool slate floor, I fly to the **living** room. A living scarecrow blocks my path.

"Cara?"

Wincing, recoiling from the figure; yet continuing to run towards him, the 'ka-thump, ka-thump' of the zombie's dragging feet drawing nearer to me all the while.

"Move! Please, it's going to- to eat us and-! **Oh**, God, just **move**!"

The scarecrow fades, leaving Crane stepping back through the door frame leading into the kitchen/living room.

He is not wearing his mask. Probably never had been; he just really does have a scarecrow-ish quality to him, just accentuated by his own drug, making me believe that he had been a living scarecrow.

Immediately following him through the doorway, a hand shoots from my left-hand side, gripping firmly the top of my arm where the bandages stop.

The dragging feet sound much closer now that I cannot move away anymore.

Panicking, I tug against the grip on my arm, silently (_can't say a word, the zombie __**will**__ hear_) pleading with my eyes for Crane to let me go.

_Can't he hear the ragged breathing? The moaning? The cracking of bones as the ghoulish __**thing**__ moves? _

"Cara," Jonathan starts, calm, collect, **ignorant** of just how close the zombie is now. I throw my body weight against Crane's, forcing us both into the deeper shadows of the wall, away from the ghoul's view as it lumbers into the shady room. He doesn't splutter, but I can guess that he's shocked. "What is-?" Returning the taller man's arctic glare with one of my own –admittedly less convincing- versions, I press a hand over his mouth; turning my head to check on what progress the foul, unnatural creature has made.

So close to me is it's face, that I can easily make-out single, burst capillaries, lacing the morbid, flayed, peeling skin of the dead man's face.

The open mouth breaths into my own, dropped, shocked jaw. I gag at the taste of it's breath in my mouth. It's even worse than Marmite.

Almost idly, I wonder why the lips under my –suddenly sickly cold- palm twitch in what feels like two directions: up and down. Or at least, I think that's where I last thought up and down to be.

Transfixed still upon that ruined face, I think that I can feel an abyssal dread ticking over in my throat, ready for a scream I will never be able to make.

I can't even close my eyes. Helpless. I hate this.

This is the end.

* * *

_**Ask her, ask her, ask her, ask her...**_

As immature Scarecrow's methods may be sometimes, they can often be the most effective when in –already uncomfortable- situations.

I do not think that Cara even knows that she is... so close to me.

Scarecrow snorts, the stitches around his mouth twitching upwards in contrast to the falling of my own.

_**I think that the correct term would be, **_he clears his throat in mock polite manner,_** 'pressed flush'?**_

Growling in frustration (_**oh, I'm sure you're **_**full**_** of **_**frustration**_**, Johnny...**_), I pry the pale, trembling hand from my mouth, only to have her latch onto the front of my new, navy suit, which I had picked up from the hideout where my extra dosages of fear toxin had remained unfound by the idiotic Gotham police force and –somehow- the Batman.

Letting go of her arm, I reach around the shaking woman to place my hand against her turned cheek, gently urging her face to face mine.

"Cara, I want you to look at me. Whatever you see is not real. I am. Look at me." Careful to sound just that, I brush my thumb against her cheek. Watching the way her darker eyes –dilated in terror- would snap about, looking everywhere but into my eyes.

_**Jealous of inanimate objects, Johnny? **_

_No._ I snarl at my alter, trying to control the anger well up within as my 'partner' sniggers. Such emotions would make keeping Scarecrow from my consciousness even more difficult than it already is. Such a pity his good mood from his earlier kill has already worn off. _Although there is something I would like to tell you now._

_**Oh? What is it Johnny-boy? Made up your mind on the fate of our little Crow yet? **_Taunting.

_Yes. _I smirk, using one hand to loosen Crow's grasp on my suit- I don't want to have creases in it already. _I feel that we have scared Cara, Miss Crow, quite enough; I would like to enjoy her company more. Scarecrow, she is mine now. I do not want you scaring her –I will have trouble not doing that myself- so, in the words of one such as yourself: __**back off.**_

Scarecrow licks my lips, in **my** body. The anger I have just expressed must have created an opening for him to slip into control.

_Don't you dare. _I breathe, a furnace of threats. _**Don't you dare.**_

I can feel the chuckle vibrating in my chest and the feel of Cara's eyes clambering to meet my own at the sound. For some reason Scarecrow avoids them.

"Help me." So quiet is her voice that I am scarcely able to believe that I had heard it; rather than imagined it.

_Make sure you __**do**__ help her. I do not want to be picking up the pieces after you again._

_**Of course, I'll help her, Johnny! **_Cackling as if he had just given the punch line of a joke, Scarecrow's –_my_- body twists suddenly, flipping around our earlier position so that Crow is now between myself and the wall.

_Scarecrow!_

"Tell me," begins Scarecrow, ignoring me entirely, taking an almost fanatical care in obscuring as much of Cara's view of the room behind him as possible. Egocentric. Demanding attention. "What is it that you're running from?"

_Scarecrow I fail to see how this is helping. _Letting the ring of both warning and threat to mingle in my tone, I struggle, trying to regain control over my limbs.

_**Hush now, Johnny. Watch and learn.**_

_Why you-!_

"A-a z-zombie." Her voice breaks at the end of her sentence, eyes wide in an overwhelming panic, her chest rising and falling rapidly, whilst all Scarecrow does is nod. Calmly.

This makes me uneasy as to his intensions.

_Do not forget that you are in __**my**__ body. Cara will probably think that you __**are**__ me, courtesy to the toxin, so __**do not**__ do anything drastic._

"I see." Even with senses as intoxicated as Cara's, the slow, methodical removal of **all** of her bandages is easily noticed.

"Wh-what are you-?" She splutters, pulling, shaking against my fingers, in my hands. Trapped.

_**-doing?**__ Scarecrow?_

Giving a low chuckle, the imposter's glacial eyes meet the terrified ones of the brunette.

"I want to remind you of what you should really be afraid of. Zombies," _Damn-it Scarecrow! Stop it! _"Are simply the dead brought back to life. An impossible feat. I, on the other hand, am living, thus perfectly able," a quivering arm is held between us, branded with a single name and multiple stitches, sickening to look upon: a sick, twisted mockery of a true doctor's, my, attempt to heal his partner's 'experiment'. Experimenting with the power of a name that is. "To harm you."

Smirking coldly –even as I rattle against the bars in my mind to regain command once more- Scarecrow mimics my earlier movement of reassurance, brushing a thumb delicately along the letters of his own name. Cara does not make a sound. Her eyes flickering beneath closed lids and her back is now frozen against the slate wall behind.

_Narcissistic... _Snarling the word, I feel my feet slip by a fraction as I find the area where the control over my body is often the weakest: the extremities. _I thought that you were sated enough for now._

_**I am. **_Scarecrow titters, continuing his deceptively gentle motion upon the shivering arms he holds.

_Then you are a glutton! _I exclaim, enraged with the straw-man's acts.

_**No, **_the grin in his internal voice is unhidden, at this my blood boils furiously, _**I'm **_**helping**_**.**_

"Now, my dear," Pause. There is no objection this time the name. I struggle to regain rule of my knees now. Scarecrow's smirk grows wider, splitting my face. "I would like to ask you what you think is the **scariest** thing or person in this room."

"Z-zombie." Shuddering at saying the creature's name, Cara's eyes open momentarily, immediately turning to mine, to Scarecrow's, for support. "**Please,**" she whispers, her smaller hands fisting the front of my jacket. "Please, don't let it g-get me."

_**How can I resist that look, eh, Johnny-boy? **_Cackling wildly (only in our –_my_- head thankfully), he leans away from Cara, scarcely able to keep from laughing out loud at the way she gasps and pulls herself closer to him.

"Do-don't leave me here! Please don't!"

Feigning indecision, my alter sighs.

"I don't know... 'could stay with you; but then again...? Hm, I don't know...?" The desperation upon her face would have been funny, if I had not just decided to enjoy Miss Crow's company; rather than psychologically dissect her.

_**Although it does sound like fun, doesn't it Johns? **_Scarecrow grins, even wider when he senses me toying with the idea.

"D-don't you dare l-l-leave, plea-please," Scarecrow stares out of the adjacent window, smirking at the slow fall of the snow outside, its winding patterns hypnotic to watch; the noiselessness of that white, outside world suddenly more desirable than this monotonous exchange of actions. _**What more is there to do, except to leave? **_He wonders half-heartedly, half-listening to the brunette tugging at his suit and her failing voice. _**I want to leave, Johnny. I'm **_**bored**_** here.**_

Naturally this... request startles me. _We must stay; there are things to be done here._

**_I'm _sure _that there are plenty of things you need _done _here. _**Scarecrow sneers, while a cough-like laugh catches in the back of his – my – throat. I glare in response. **_Calm down, Johnny, I see where you are wanting this to go and it's probably for the good of _both _of us. _**The straw man twists his stitched mouth upwards in a mockery of a smile. **_Just this once, I think you might be right._**

_

* * *

_

_It, __**all**__ of this is just his damn drug! _

Although the fearful gleam in Scarecrow's piercing eyes suggests otherwise. Perhaps I'm going mad with all this toxin poisoning my senses?

Especially since now I can see where Jonathan Crane stops and Scarecrow begins, I definitely have no need for 'Scare-Crane' now that I can tell. Even if they switch rather quickly between themselves.

"You seem to have calmed down, is the zombie not bothering you anymore, my dear?"

_**Zombie.**_ My lip quivers at the thought of the dead man's hulking corpse being anywhere near me ever again.

"I th-think you scared him off," Watching the flicker of smugness in his predatory gaze, I resume, experimenting just how far my luck can stretch, "Sca-Scarecrow, would you mind if I a-asked C-Crane someth-thing?"

The smug glint turns cold.

"Sure," he breathes, reminding me of the **it** from my nightmares, I feel like I had 'seen' the **it** somewhere else as well lately... "Go ahead."

With so little space between us both and my strength already far more questionable than normal, all I can do is hope that Scarecrow doesn't... act himself. Especially whilst he still has a grip on my arms.

I take a ragged breath, exposing my tired state; but for better or worse I don't really care right now. I change tracks back to talking to talking to Crane's 'other half'. _All I need is..._

"Scarecrow," at the sound of his name, the fiend cocks his head curiously.

"Yes, my little Crow?"

"Just Cara please. Or Crow, **if you must**, I really need to know..."

"Yes?" He may not move –except for that maniacal smirk rising upon his cracking lips- but his voice gives away his excitement. "What do you 'really need to know', my little Crow?"

I snap under the pressure of-_ Well, isn't just being around __**Scarecrow**__ enough?_

"Did you ruin **all** of my towels? I would really like a shower."


	12. Remember?

**Chapter Twelve: Remember? **

The feel of hot, wet fingers of water trailing down my back and through my hair is wonderfully relaxing.

Even Scarecrow can't take this away from me.

Rinsing out the last of the soap in my hair, I wince as the bubbles slip across my lower back, arching in a small; albeit sharp pain, as the otherwise pleasantly scented water runs into the crude cuts there.

Hissing from between my braced teeth, I focus on shutting off the water and reaching for the last –out of my original **four**- olive green bath towel, wrapping it securely around my abused body.

Scarily enough, some of marks I cannot remember for the life of me where they had come from; but then again, I still don't know how I got back from Isabelle's that night. When I asked Scarecrow (against much of my better judgement) about it whilst hunting for the last of the towels, he simply laughed and asked:_ 'You don't remember?'_

Bundling my clothes under one arm (_what possessed me to go out –in __**winter**__- in a skirt and t-shirt?_) I unlock the bathroom door, shivering involuntarily as the slate floor beneath my feet is colder than I expect.

"Cara? I need to clarify something on this application with..." Glancing across at the man pacing out of the study doorframe down the left side of the hallway, I cautiously start for my room, appreciative for the makeshift curtain/door Crane had nailed to the top of the splintered doorframe whilst I was sleeping from the ... _maybe Isabelle had a party? Did she somehow convince me to drink? That might be why I cannot remember being at Izzy's nor coming home?_

"Would you mind if I get changed first?" I raise an eyebrow, hiding the fact that my hands are shaking by gripping the towel tighter than usual.

"I... of course not. Hurry, I want to get this form filled in right away and in the post, you are much too intelligent to be jobless."

Averting my eyes at the –questionable- compliment, my feet move towards the relative safety of my room acting on autopilot, thankfully.

"I suppose I am, Crane. Although can I trust you in my apartment while I'm out slaving to get us a decent meal and new sofas when you feel the urge to go furniture shopping?"

Crane coughs a chuckle, indicating the 'door' I am about to walk through with a tip of his head.

"Get changed, then let's discuss **trust**." The last word cuts through me like a knife. I swallow forcefully, stepping into the darkness of my room and flicking on the light switch as I go.

"_Aw, did you try using the old light switch? The new one's over here."_

Terror. That voice sounds so close, more importantly **who** does it belong to? A strangled noise rises from the back of my throat; it comes to nothing. _Who's so close? I can't remember. _My body reacts by pressing itself into whatever's behind me.

Nothing: just the cloth door. _Are those my kitchen curtains? _Vaguely I realise that I have fallen, I am on the floor, shaking in the towel.

_**Roaches.**_ I remember roaches everywhere. _On a face._ Tap._ On my skin._ Tap. _Up my sleeves._ Tap. _Up my skirt._ Tap. _In my hair._ Tap. Tap. _In my skin._ Tap. "Cara?" _Tearing their way in._ "It's not real." _Ripping._ A sigh. Hands, arms, scoop me up against something warm and hard. Reassuring. I sigh. _Reassuring._ The roaches fade, scuttling away.

Then, feeling movement, I open my eyes. Blinking twice at the light to adjust. We are in the study, Crane carrying me in his arms awkwardly; yet his face shows no sign of strain from either the ache of his muscles from my weight, so why-?

Ah, the towel.

Hastily amending the upwards ride of the offending olive green towel, a groan of wood against wood sounds out as Crane shoves back the high-backed chair behind the boldly carved, surprisingly organised (_did he...? Of course he did, the neat-freak..._), oak desk.

"Uh, I'm alright now Crane... thank you." The doctor doesn't even glance at me, which is a good thing I suppose, seeing as I still trying to make sense of what had just happened and this situation isn't doing much to help with the thinking side of things...

_Although from this angle I can see quite enough of his angular jaw to make my thoughts quite-!_ My eyes avert abruptly, taking in the application form Izzy had brought a few days ago resting neatly between a book from one of the shelves (_Oscar Wilde? I would have thought that Crane would be reading a psychology book or a horror or, something..._) and a sleek, sin black notebook. I have not seen it before, it must be Crane's. Although slightly tattered at the edges, the pocket-sized pad gives off a mild sense of foreboding: some terrible secrets must be stored in that curious, black notebook.

With a strange expression of nothing being out of the ordinary, as if he often finds himself carrying women in towels, the doctor adjusts his hold on my cradled body so that I am pressing gently into his suited chest.

_When did Crane get a new suit? Hm, navy brings out his eyes... No! I blame the closeness of position! He is not bloody attractive in any way! _Thankfully, no blush comes. _Calm down Cara, he's still dangerous..._

Feeling the way Crane's body seems to coil over mine, I tense suddenly in his arms, even going so far as to lean into him in the moment of mild panic.

He sits in the chair. The leather groans in protest at our combined weight and the body coiled in upon my own recedes, resting back against the tall, bark brown back; albeit my hands prevent the back of his neck touching the cool leather.

Crane chuckles.

Blushing furiously (_curse him for making me blush! I __**never**__ blush around anyone else!_), I snap back my hands and nervously begin readjusting and fiddling with the bunching towel.

"Crane," I exclaim, flustered and terribly uncomfortable with our position. "I need to go and-!"

"Fill out your job application for Arkham?" His voice is even, level, controlled. We could be sat on the train talking, in public; not in our current... situation. I twist my body, wary of the towel, to frown up at the faintly smiling face.

"Get changed." I finish, hissing the final words with an embarrassed rage, I twist again, this time in order to break free of his lean, strong arms. They pull me closer. Unable to break free, my body stops struggling; but by no means do I relax in his arms. The warm, steady breath on the top of my wet head just reinforces Crane's almost inhuman-ness in my mind: how can he be so calm, so unbothered by this?

I don't even think that I can breathe properly.

"_**Never**__ interrupt me again!"_

The monst- man, sounds as though he is shouting; yet the... memory? sounds as if it is coming to me through a filter or screen. Although less potent; fear immerses me and I can neither move nor speak, whilst my thoughts take a violently pessimistic turn.

The queer moment passes as suddenly as it came; although not before Crane takes full advantage of my abrupt stillness.

"Cara," he starts again, resting his chin atop of my head, "why do you only call me Crane now? I do not refer to you as **Crow**, do I?" The emotion in his drawl is either none existent or well hidden; although I do think that I can detect a twinge of smugness in his words._ How frustrating._

"Wh-why don't you let me go and get changed, then we can have this conversation?" _Don't stutter! _Screams my mind. _What if Scarecrow-?_

"This way saves time," Crane explains patiently, removing his chin and reaching for the pen next to the form and handing it to me. "I need you to write in your reasons for wanting this job; I cannot do **everything** for you."

I frown.

"Did I ask you to fill in my application, Cra-?"

"Jonathan." The –_definitely mad_- doctor corrects. "I want you to call me Jonathan, if you would, **Cara**." He stresses the fact that he uses my first name, a threat.

"What do you," I mutter, turning away from him, "care what I call you?" Huffing, I replace the pen upon the desk, preparing to **certainly** get away from Crane this time.

I have barely moved when a pair of gaunt hands crushes either side of my face, wrenching me around to stare shocked and directly into Crane's, no, **Scarecrow's** blazing blue eyes.

"**You** should care because you wouldn't want to mix **us** up now would you, Crow?" Taunting, then chuckling throatily, so deeply that I can feel the vibrations of his humour rattle through me as well, I feel yet another blush stain my cheeks as Scarecrow's eyes trail down the bothered towel and –more worryingly- across my bare skin. He pauses at the sight of his name.

"Scarecrow," My voice wavers; but does not stutter. Seemingly rapt at the strange delivery of his name, the fiend shifts so that his warm breath tickles against my ear, playing with trickles of cool water left from the shower not five minutes ago, the sensation making me shiver with a frightening assortment of emotions. _How can things change so fast? This is terribly dangerous... damn, I want die __**clothed**__. Or does he want to kill me? He called me 'Crow'; not any of those ridiculous pet names he usually uses..._

"Yes?" The raw emotion in his scratchy speech, his **one word**, makes me pause. No matter how many times I hear it, **know** it, the change from Jonathan Crane to Scarecrow will most probably stay like this to me: unnatural, alien, terrifying.

Snickering at the stunned silence, I struggle to breathe regularly as the breath ascends down my neck, which pulsates as the rapid throbbing of my pulse becomes more and more apparent.

"Don't..." I warn with a whisper- I can't trust my voice not to break if I speak any louder. _Why is he doing this?_

"Don't do what, Crow?" Scarecrow chuckles huskily, breathily, whilst his wiry fingers run down my legs from where the towel stops. "I can't help you if you don't tell me what's wrong." Something solid and oh-so slightly moist grazes my neck then nips sharply.

"Ouch!" The pain relieves me of the fog of the fruit-salad of emotions destroying my –somewhat questionable- sense, and my hands push at the chuckling man's chin and forehead, forcing him away. "What the hell was **that**, Scarecrow?" A half laugh, half shudder escapes me at the alien flicker in his gas flame blue eyes. "You... you didn't **bite** me, did you?" I ask, no nervous laughs now to cover the anxiety in my tone. I don't really want to hear the truth anymore. _It makes sense that I'm scared after all he's done and now this? I think I'd prefer him to hurt me. Oh, this is freaking me out... he __**bit**__ me! He freaking __**bit**__ me!_

The flicker of emotion strikes, a match, a burning flame of a coy, somewhat needing expression of delight lighting up his angular features. I shudder at the sight.

He pushes me off his lap.

Surprised, I only just mange to grip the desk with one hand, the towel with the other, to prevent me from hitting the floor. The rapping of feet against the wooden floorboards jerks my attention to...

_Scarecrow?_

_Cra... Jonathan?_

Either way, both leave the study, closing the door with a slam behind them.

Still watching the door and listening to the muffled tap of his feet, I stand, rewrap the towel and pick up the application form for Arkham.

I decide that I'm in shock. After all, shouldn't I be more worried that a **wanted criminal** just bit my neck?

_Scarecrow bit me. With his teeth. What sort of person bites...? Why? Oh God, the last time I was bit was by my younger brother when he was six. Six! What the hell... is going on?_

Suddenly it's all too much and I start laughing: a terrible, hollow, sardonic sound; completely unlike my usual –far more jolly- laughter.

"He's a vampire, of course," The voice of reason screams out that I'm hysterical now. C_**alm down! **_It tells me, _control yourself!_ But the hysteria is too much now: _Cra- Jonathan __**kissed**__ me; Scarecrow __**bit**__ me, _"**that's** why he bit me!" Giggling, I keep on laughing until tears slip down my cheeks. I'm shaking. Trembling in fear. Again.

Suddenly it's not so funny anymore.

_It's the same._ The hand holding the form clenches, I glare at the crackle of the paper and tear it until it looks the same as the snow outside. _**It's all the same!**__ Crane or Scarecrow do something, I forgive them, they do it again, I forgive them... one of us gets hurt, we help the other, Crane or Scarecrow hurts me, fix me, hurt me, fix me... What do they want? _I let the remnants of paper in my hands fall to the floor as my fingers work their way, tangling, into my soaked hair. _What do they __**want**__?_

Unable to find an answer, the logic of normality decides that what I want is to dry-off properly and get into some clothes.

On my way out of the long study, I glance at the light switch, remembering that haunting voice with a reluctant shiver of displeasure.

"_Aw, did you try using the old light switch? The new one's over here."_

Frowning slightly, my nails draw a short path down my neck as I open the door and step out of the room, wandering down the hallway, lost in thought, trying to remember what I had forgotten. Mad really; but what else can I do right now? I'm in shock, I need something –anything- to distract me.

'_You don't remember?' That's what Scarecrow said... _Pushing the makeshift curtain-door to my room to the side, I give my room the once over (_not much good seems to come from trusting Cr- Jonathan, and defiantly not from Scarecrow_) and start rooting for my brown long-sleeved shirt (_I don't want to see __**Scarecrow**__ all over my arms anymore than I already have..._) and some jeans.

_Jonathan probably knows what happened... if Scarecrow hadn't been in control at the time. There's no way I'm going ask him after what he just did. I can't believe that he __**bit**__ me. What the hell was he thinking? Was he trying to frighten me? Well, it worked! Maybe he was showing some sort of dominance, control over the situation... over me? _

Wearing everything but my shirt, I lift up my arms and stare at them. I had looked at them before; yet never actually **looked**. Fear had stopped me before; albeit now I shall refuse to be controlled by fear –by Scarecrow- anymore.

The cuts are healing, the stitches Jonathan had sewn it had most defiantly sped up the healing process; despite them being somewhat crude, akin to **Scarecrow's** grin on his ma-

_Stop it, Cara,_ mentally I chide myself for feeling afraid and lowering my arms- out of sight, out of mind, _Scarecrow has already-_

"_...Scarecrow has already had his share of fun."_

I freeze. _For a second there,_ I peer quickly, around the room, in time to my –suddenly rapid- breathing, _I thought that I'd heard Jonathan... with a bad throat, his voice had been so scratchy._

_Like __**Scarecrow's**__._

"_Afraid of my mask?"_

This time I have to actually stifle a cry of shock that rises from my throat at the sound of Crane speaking. I had been half expecting a canister to hiss with a malicious intent that time, the sickening **amusement** in his words! The dark, twisted, delight, the terrible finality that being afraid of his mask seals one's fate to a lifetime of horror and madness; his anticipation of ravaging the mind of one of his test subjects; the mere sadistic suggestion of things to come, scratching against my ears.

No, they can't be bleeding, that's just silly.

I just want the –**his**- voice to stop, so –squeezing my eyes shut- I count to ten.

For reasons unknown, 'Bodies' by Drowning Pool plays through my head... almost reassuringly...

_**One. **__There's nothing wrong with me._

_**Two.**__ There's nothing wrong with me._

_**Three.**__ There's nothing wrong with me._

_**Four.**__**There's nothing wrong with me!**_

_**One.**__ Something has got to give!_

_**Two.**__ Something has got to-!_

My eyes open even before I can finish the chorus and Jonathan is standing next to me, saying something. My head stops buzzing finally and I can listen.

"I'm glad you stopped screaming." He says, gazing down at me through his glasses, looking smug as if he had been proven right about something.

I start, _I had been screaming? _

"I c-can't remember screaming, Cr- Jonathan," his smug air becomes a smirk and he holds up a familiar shirt. My cheeks flush crimson as I make a grab for the item.

The taller man waits a moment as I turn and slip it on, a second later and a period of madness (or, should we say, a period of more madness than usual) appears to overcome the doctor as his wiry arms slide around my waist and hold me to him tightly.

"Jonathan..." Even to my ears, my voice sounds so small; none of the warning I had wanted to inject into my tone had come through. _It sounds as though I'm pleading,_ I realise bitterly and with sense of dread.

Crane sighs into the side of my neck, his head bending down at an awkward angle, the sensation causes a shiver of nervous expectation to run through me. I feel guilty; but-

"You like having me this close." Hesitantly I nod, then shake my head, at the statement, his declaration. _I don't like this, I don't like this..._ "Do you want me to tell you what you were screaming, Cara?"

_Something about personal space, perhaps? And I thought Scarecrow was bad at knowing when to give people space... I don't like this, I do not like this..._

"I asked if you would like to know what you were screaming, Cara. Or maybe you feel embarrassed **because** you know what you were saying...?"

"What w-was I saying, Crane?" I can feel myself grow tired of his games: _I don't even know what happened to Isabelle! Wait, why would something bad have happened to Izzy? _

"Only my enemies have a tendency to call me **Crane**," the pressure of his body forces me into the nearby corner of the room, close to my personal sink, no longer covered in brushes and ink, clean. I barely struggle –it only gets me hurt, let him say his piece, then he **will** let me go - as he turns me around to face him, his frozen eyes glinting eerily as he demands. "Would you consider yourself as one of my enemies?"

"No;" I falter, "but I will unless you give me some space. What was I screaming, Cr- Jonathan?"

His eyes soften a fraction at my submission as he ignores my request for space.

_Why so touchy-feely, doctor? _Spews my thoughts sarcastically.

He licks his lips before answering, apparently unable to keep his hands to himself as they cause miniature shivers at their touch on my sides and around the lower hem of my shirt.

"You were screaming my name."

I could really punch my subconscious in the face right now.

"R-really?"

"Yes."

"Oh."

"Oh, what?" Crane raises an eyebrow.

"Oh dear," I sigh, "my subconscious appears to have broken."

"Broken?"

"Yes, why else would I screaming for you for **help**? Actually," my head cocks sideways, my swamp coloured eyes scanning Jonathan's features for... a sign? I fail to see the holy light of any deity helping me out here. "Actually you **did** try, succeeded even, to patch me up... on several occasions..."

He grins, a tad too widely for my comfort. _Or maybe I'm freaking out from being so close to someone who's male (not related to me) and is considered clinically __**insane**__?_

"You trust me?"

Hesitantly I incline my head, never leaving –unable to break- eye contact with those gleaming, icy eyes. _There has to be something wrong with me for that. Madness __**must**__ be contagious. Where can I get a vaccination –or better yet- a cure then?_

"Maybe a little... if you tell me what I can't seem to remember, please Jonathan?" At his falter, I ask a more direct question. "Where is Isabelle?"

"_Isabelle is dead."_

"_And now I am all you have..."_

_Go away! _I mentally roar at the voice. I can't believe it. _I __**cannot**__ believe it._

"Isabelle is..."

"Dead!" I spit the word, fury whipping at my thoughts, tingling in my fingers, pounding in my chest. I'm furious. I'm angry. I'm seeing Red. I want answers and I want them fucking **now**. "When were you going to tell me that you **killed** her Jonathan? **When?**"

All the coward does is stare. Staring as if I had just asked him a deep and meaningful question, contemplating his answer.

"Don't you dare lie to me," I warn, somewhat gladdened by his lack of rebuttal about lying (_I may deserve it though, lying __**is**__ a terrible thing to do... no, conscience, not now __**please**_); although my jaw sets at the extending silence coming from my main source of pain at the moment. _Why did you do it? __**Why?**_

"I thought I had time." He murmurs, brushing away a tear I am not aware of shedding. I slap away his hand; regretting it when a blue glare assails me, a sharp voice soon following- like icicles. "Can you not see that I am trying to **comfort** you? She-! That, Isabelle," he draws out her name like a foul taste, "was getting in the way. Too many people would have known!" Sounding uncharacteristically flustered, Crane steps away from me and the wall, running a wiry hand down his face, catching on the stubble forming there. "**If** I had been caught, what do you think would have happened to **you**?" He challenges, changing direction now.

I bristle.

"Don't you dare turn this-!"

"You seem to be daring me to do a lot of things, I would think about your position before continuing." The malice in his words is thick, the threat in his eyes even more so. _What is it with Jonathan and his eyes? _Briefly, a flicker of a memory –an intense memory- shows those blues in an odd, dim light, virtually **alive**.

"Why?" A bark of laughter leaves me feeling somewhat hollow and I can already feel my anger fading back into that familiar emotion. "Going to g-gas me? Wait," another memory, more fragmented this time: the hiss of a canister –I can't recognise the surroundings- dark, everything is dark. Light. A morgue. A fracking **morgue**! Roaches. Something breathing on me, I can't see **it**. My breathing... out of control. A panic attack? Probably. I remember screaming. Screaming when it was about to bite, about to tear me apart, this must be why Scarecrow bit me: trying to make me relapse! Thank goodness, he did not succeed... wonder why? Regardless, screaming in terror, then for help, for-

"_**Jonathan!**__**Help me!**__" _

Everything fits.

A low chuckle from in front of me pulls me back into the present.

"You remember?"

"Yes." I whisper, staring at my hands, clutching the other and shaking oh-so slightly. "I remember everything."


	13. Normality restored?

**Chapter Thirteen: Normality restored?**

_And I won't hold you back  
Let your anger rise  
And we'll fly and we'll fall and we'll burn  
No one will recall. No one will recall._– Muse, Stockholm Syndrome

This is the last time I'll abandon you  
And this is the last time I'll forget you  
I wish I could

My hands are still clutching the other, still trembling, as Jonathan's wiry fingers tilt my downcast face upwards, using my chin as leverage.

He does not speak. Instead, his eyes observe my features, an almost tender emotion glimmering beneath all that ice of facts and experiments and goodness-knows-what-else.

I cannot –and not for the first or even the second time- disregard just how handsome I find Jonathan; and not to mention the effects (_blushing? Again?_) he has on me despite his odd looks: too gaunt, awkward and lank for conventional beauty; yet somehow the sharpness reflects his personality... Kind of like the way everyone's favourite aunt is overweight; yet no one would think to call her fat- it's just the way she is and she is just liked that way.

"Cara," He starts, sounding both annoyed and amused, "you're staring."

"Uh, s-sorry about..." I trail off, unable to stop myself from intensifying the nervous grip on my hands when I see the slight smirk on Crane's lips.

_Izzy's dead and all I can think of is how- how pretty her __**murderer**__ is? _A piece of poetry –too far away to actually read- proves something else to focus my attention upon; despite Crane's steady hold upon my chin.

"Something's wrong with me, Jonathan." My voice quakes, even as his warmer hand retracts back to his side. There is confusion drawing down the doctor's brow and a sudden urge to cry almost overwhelms my senses as the grief of Izzy's death washes over me again. "I-I feel lost," my hands release the other and cross across my battered body. _How long will it take everything to heal?_ "I sh-should hate you, want y-you dead for what you've done to- to Izzy... I... I can- can't bring myself to dislike you anymore. But... I don't feel numb either."

Jonathan's body shifts, causing my attention to snap to his intentions. He freezes in mid-action of almost embracing my shivering form, before moving slowly closer, keeping eye contact, before totally stopping moments before we touch.

Crane inclines his head, unusually... submissive?

"If I may... Cara?"

This annoys me for reasons unknown, perhaps because I am so used to the way which Crane usually behaves? With all of his arrogant, self-assured, 'I am the God of Fear!' type thinking, seeing the dark haired man act so... meek is, well, disappointing: like seeming a tiger trapped in a cage- you know the creature is dangerous; but there is no real threat to yourself really. A disappointment. A letdown. Yet probably safer. _I do want to be safe, __**alive**__, don't I?_

Jonathan trying not to be scary is just like seeing that tiger try to be vegetarian. In other words, pretty unnatural, don't you think?

"Jonathan," I start, my voice quite level, although quite breathy from the awkward closeness, "I wouldn't even care if you kissed me right now, just please stop trying to be so-!" _Considerate? Gentlemanly? _My mind throws at me, my ideals of a good, **healthy** relationship suddenly feeling more like restricting red tape. I'm not sure what to think about this feeling. "S-so-! Whatever you're trying to be right now and **hug** me!" By now the shock must be affecting my brain or something, since I suddenly point to my temples with both hands. "This whole ordeal has messed-up my head, my **life** so much and, bloody hell, I've just remembered that you just killed one –my only- friend this side of the Atlantic! So please, a hug, a proper, confident, damn manly hug would be bloody brilliant right now."

The feared, villainous, man stares down at my antics for a moment before chuckling under his breath.

"That... I can do." Embracing me, his breath tickles in my hair as he chuckles again. "I was never any good at allowing others control of **my** interest, anyway."

"Sorry?" _Did that even make sense? _

Jonathan shakes his head, making a swishing sound as the tip of his chin catches some of my loose hair.

"Ignore me. You have enough on your mind at the moment. Tell me, however, how did the two you become friends?" His hand rubs my back affectionately in a linear motion. "Perhaps it will help."

Separating myself from him, I wipe a sleeve against my eyes, nod and sniff. "S-sure," walking out of my room and into the kitchen area to hunt down the last of my kitchen paper (seeing as my tissues seem to have all been used already...), I can feel Crane's eyes following my movements carefully, as he waits for me to join him next to his, no, the sofa.

Finding the kitchen towels, I clean myself up before splashing some cold water across my face.

The trickling of water on my face feels like the legs of roaches. I squeeze my eyes shut against the sensation, reaching for a something to dry off with. The dryness of one of the few (thanks to my old 'bandages') remaining tea-towels left is most welcomed.

Turning back to look over the counter at Jonathan, he motions to the leather couch as I walk towards him.

"Shall we?" His frozen eyes seem to glimmer at the expression on my face. I touch my cheek as he sits down, no longer watching. Cold, colder than usual, faint... **pale**: _I must have reacted more violently to that __**tiny**__ relapse than I'd realised..._

At the sound of me sitting down next to him (as far away as possible, might I add: I'm starting to already regret hugging him, thanks to his creepy expression), Crane examines me out of the corner of his eye for a while as I fiddle with my hands, scratch at my neck and struggle not to immerse myself in Izzy's passing.

Eventually, Crane snaps off his glasses.

"Jonathan, I-!"

"If you did not want to talk, all you had to do was say." His eyes stare me down, until I smile at him. "What now?" He snaps, before glaring at the television. The Wizard of Oz is not playing this time, unfortunately. In fact, the TV set is quite dead. Jonathan's lips thin as he leans closer to me, eyes narrowing likewise. "Are you... **laughing** at me?" The threat and danger in his low tone is so pronounced, that I wonder wherefore-or-not a caution sign should be used for when this... criminal goes outside.

_Speaking of which, why __**is**__ he still here? Please don't like me... no matter how damn attractive he is, he's still a __**killer**__._

"Maybe I'm hysterical now." I mutter under my breath, no longer able to neither keep smiling nor even look at the dark haired man.

"Probably." Crane replied evenly, apparently satisfied with the answer, he moves back to his previous, less imposing position now that he seems sure of my lack of teasing. _How odd... Oh God, __**Izzy**__._

"Wh-why did you have to **kill** her?" The words have left my lips before I can even realise that I'm crying again. "I-Izzy would n-never..." I trail off, fighting to control myself as a shudder of unease falls down my spine. I pull my legs up to my chest, hugging them tight and resting the side of my grieving face against them, keeping my expression hidden from the man sitting beside me.

Speaking of which...

"J-Jonathan, please, d-don't c-come closer. I w-want to be a-alone, please." _Everything feels so heavy. So... sad. Lost. Uncontrolled. Hurt. Just so __**hurt**__._

The leather creaks as the doctor's body settles close, touching mine; a long arm pulling me into another embrace. Protective, assertive, everything I need right now. Something tells me to be suspicious. I ignore it. Words are hummed, I try to listen. Everything feels so heavy. No focus. There's grief; but not as sharp: like the contact between us is sharing out the hurt.

More tears fall as I close my eyes; yet my muscles stay taunt, ready to defend myself against this murderer again if need be. I don't, can't, trust him.

As he's playing with my hair, I think I can hear Crane's heartbeat. My lips make a dreamy half-smile at that- turns out the Scarecrow does have a heart! No wait, that was the **lion**...

I think he was humming a rhyme.

* * *

Nothing much else happened until much later, well after the disgraced doctor had returned the sleeping woman to her bed. Well after the said man had finished watching a horror film which had been left in the DVD player (the open case next to the set had drawn his attention).

Nothing, however, could not be described as the conversation he had into his mobile phone.

The Scarecrow, it turns out, still has the majority of his muscle.

"... so is that all, Boss?" The grunt (funnily enough), grunts into the receiver, wiping away the sweat forming upon his brow. The grunt doesn't like to admit it, but he knows what could, what will, happen to him... should he mess up the Boss' plans.

The Boss' voice is chilling, purring; yet harsh through the weather-beaten phone.

"No," Scarecrow pauses momentarily, pondering of how to go about what he is about to say. Of how not to give away too much information. "There's something else. A girl- a hostage," he corrects himself, pacing briskly up and down the cool wood of the corridor. _Maybe,_ Crane wonders, stopping outside the curtain door of the said **host**age, _maybe I'm starting to trust the safety of Cara's- her, apartment too much._ The doctor glances at his socked feet. _I can hardly make a rapid getaway without shoes..._

The grunt barks a brutal laugh.

"What? Do you need us to clean up?"

Crane flinches at the other man's terminology; Scarecrow cackles.

Stammering a reply, the grunt is swiftly cut-off by his boss, who waves a hand absentmindedly as he resumes pacing.

"Dex'... do you really think that **I** would need a clean-up team? I believe that I did quite well with cleaning-up Miss Finch's apartment myself..." Trailing off, a grin spreads across Scarecrow's face as a short exhale of shocked awe comes from the other man's phone.

"Boss, you-?"

"Yes. Now shut up and listen. I need a secure location for both myself (including my work, naturally) and my... friend."

The grunt sniggers shrewdly, already his mind ripe with locations for such a place. Luckily, some of his 'safe houses' even had **basements**.

"I'll send you the address once I have it, Scarecrow."

"Good." The Scarecrow grins wider, once more stopping at the door of his host**age**. _**If only she knew what's going to happen... **_The villain shakes his head, ignoring any words of protest from his alter. "I will need some muscle to destroy her apartment, you understand? I can't have the police sniffing around after a missing foreigner, never mind **the Bat**." At the sound of 'Bat', Crane's head throbs suddenly and Scarecrow's lips turn down in distaste underneath his mask.

_At least we can agree on something... _Mutters Crane under his breath, which is somewhat odd, seeing as his voice is coming from within his own head.

Scarecrow only mutely nods his agreement.

"I'll send someone right away, Boss." On the other side of the line, the grunt, generally known as Dex', conveys a series of hand signals to some of his colleagues, who grin and –almost zealously- begin cocking weapons, gathering masks, canisters... two keys to two none descript vans... The grunt rubs a quite average hand against the back of his tussled, raven haired head. "We'll pick you both up once we get there." Dex' bites his dry bottom lip fearfully, before catching himself and asking: "Is th-that good for you, Boss?"

Back at Cara's apartment, Scarecrow chuckles humourlessly.

"If it isn't, Dexter," the lanky man pauses to dampen his lips, "you would be the **first** to know."

And with that, the Scarecrow hung up.

* * *

I woke with a start. Now **that** nightmare had felt so... real, so... vivid. I rub a hand back and forth against the warmth of my neck, trying to focus on something other than...

_Why am I in bed?_ My head ticks over for a moment, trying to get it's bearings, a grasp on what happened. A side effect of the fear toxin must be forgetfulness... _unless that nightmare has made me-?_

Oh yes, I fell asleep on Jonathan.

"Bugger!" Slipping out of the warmness of the duvet, I curse again (_honestly, later I had better wash my mouth out with soap! Or I'll join the bandwagon and blame __**stress**__..._), and start to leave my room, noting how my shoes had been left on.

_Well that's strange... at least he didn't re-dress me this time..._

"Jonathan!" I call upon brushing through the curtain of cloth (_yep, defiantly my kitchen curtains_) and into the corridor. "Jonathan, are you in here?" With no reply, I can feel a bubble of hope rise upwards within me. _I'm free! He left! I'm free! _I even find myself smiling. Actually smiling a happy, not an anxious or generally worried or nervous smile; but a simply **happy** smile! I could even pinch myself and not wake up. _Brilliant!_

Singing quietly 'sunshine, lollipops', my feet automatically wonder in the direction of the kitchen, since all I need to do right now is to properly grieve Izzy's passing and what better way to do that than to get high off sugar from ice cream and watch one of those dreaded 'chick-flick' films she always wanted us to watch together? I struggle to think of a better way which doesn't mean a lot of tears and depression- surely Izzy would want the people she left behind to be all depressed over her death (and to not celebrate a certain friend's freedom from a certain creepy doctor...)?

Regardless of the 'best' methods of grieving, I now have a plan and I intend to stick-!

**Voices. **

_Correction: __**lots**__ of voices._

I freeze, then cautiously move towards the low male tones. Had Jonathan not left after all? My stomach flips when I fail to hear Crane's voice amongst the men's. I swallow forcibly and slowly begin to back away.

Someone grabs my shoulders painfully tight.

"Hey! I found her!" The man (_thief?_) shouts. The other men stop chattering and lazily walk closer.

_One, two, three..._ All together, I can count seven of them. _Bloody hell..._ Nervously my fingers stop trying to prise the hands off me and instead scratch at my neck. I recount the men. There's still seven. I blink. Seven. Bite my lip. Seven. Still no Jonathan. No! That's a good thing, right?

"Are you sure it's her?" One asks; the lack of switched-on lights in the apartment and the ski masks the men all seem to be wearing, makes it impossible for me to know who spoke.

The beefy man gripping my shoulders shakes me lightly, surprisingly (thankfully) carefully for a man who had just broken into my home.

"Of courses it's her, Dex'! Who else can it be?" A few sniggers, and a murmur of voices follow the thug's words. The man who I'm guessing is Dex' coughs, shifting from foot-to-foot before grunting a reply.

"Can't be too sure, Alex. Let's go then." Dex begins walking towards me and my captor, drawing something out of his jacket as he goes. The other men carry on looting (?) my apartment.

"No! Wait! What are you doi-?" I splutter, instinctively shying away from whatever weapon the ski-mask clad Dex is reaching for.

Dex pauses mid-action, staring at me oddly, before resuming rummaging in his coat, talking as he does so.

"Listen doll, it's nothing personal but I-"

"**Don't**," I struggle fruitlessly against the wall of muscle holding me. _No wait, he's taking me out of the apartment now? What the-? _"Call me that, please."

Dex stares, drawing out a phone and starts typing in numbers into his battered mobile. Not a weapon. _Well at least that's a start for the positives here..._

"Well, the Boss wouldn't tell us your name. Scarecrow told us that you're a hostage and-"

_Oh, bugger._

"You work for-? H-hey! What's that? What're your men pouring all over my apartment?" My nose tells me the answer long before Dex can reply. Funnily enough, all I can think of is how grateful I am for not many other of the tenants being in the block still, thanks that corporate holiday at Wayne Corp. And that Jay, my... quirky landlord, is going to **kill** me.

"Why," the raven haired man sneers, "that's gasoline, Miss Hostage, and we have instruction to burn down this place." At catching my bewildered stare, Dex shrugs, slipping his mobile back into his grey leather jacket. "Destroy if the evidence and all that, you know... Orders."

We reach the door, despite my struggling against the heavy handed man holding me. The sloshing of gasoline continues and I can hear some more of **his** men laughing at some joke behind me. Dex fumbles for a moment, then opens my front door, the wood dark in the lack of light. _Had they been studying the schematics of my house? _I shiver. _Creepy._

The window at the end of the apartment corridor shows snow, swirling in the city's night air. I remember then that it's still January. The goose bumps on my skin tell me I'm an idiot for not demanding for my jacket before the kidnappers, well, **kidnapped** me.

_Or maybe they don't want me alive... No, Jonathan could have-! _

"Isn't it a pleasant night, Cara?" My neck snaps around at the sound of his distorted voice. The mask. The thug holding me makes a snickering laugh at my response. Yet before I attempt some sassy comment, Jona- Scarecrow reveals a needle, sauntering closer as he uncaps it. "Quite a perfect night to die."

"N-no! L-let's think a-about thi-!"

Dex mumbles something undecipherable just as I'm passing out. The needle already in my arm. _I __**flinched**__ and missed him move..._

Frankly though, I feel sick of needles.


	14. Reaching the notsofinal destination

**Chapter Fourteen: Reaching the not-so-final destination...**

Looking down at Cara's sleeping form, with her head resting so unawares on my lap and the quiet, steady sound of her breathing, I can feel my lips creeping upwards in a taunt smile under Scarecrow's mask.

Idly I brush my fingers through her loose hair, taking note at the flickering of her eyes under their lids and the small, content noise she makes as I repeat the movement.

_Interesting._ Yet, as ever, my musing is swiftly interrupted.

The van goes over a particularly rough patch of road, causing a collective **'oof!'** to ricochet through the four of my men –including the driver- in the vehicle; whilst I grit my teeth against the pain on my rear.

_I __**knew**__ I should have invested in seating back here._ I reflect irritably, shifting Miss Crow's head back into it's earlier, more comfortable position.

_**Or you could have stolen a cushion from little Crow's apartment, **_sniggers Scarecrow, joining in with his husky voice. _**Does she still think that we burned down the place, Johnny? I think that our goons were a **_**tad**_** too good at acting...**_

Needlessly checking that I have still got Cara's navy frames in my breast pocket before answering, Dex' takes the moment to start asking questions. Much to my alter ego's displeasure.

"Boss, some of us have been wondering about the girl and... we're just wondering why we didn't **actually** burn-out her pad. A-are," He stammers, noticing my death-glare from under the mask; but continues speaking regardless after a self conscious cough, "you two... acquaintances?"

_**We don't pay him to **_**talk**_**, do we? Make him shut up and answer **_**my**_** question! **_

Ignoring the grating, snarling whine of Scarecrow in my mind, I answer Dex's probing.

"If that was the case, then why would I sedate my **'acquaintance'**?" I reply with an edge to my voice which wasn't there before, mostly courtesy of Scarecrow as he growls at my disobedience, tugging at my bodily controls. The rest of the sharpness coming from my henchman's choice of words: 'acquaintance'? Furrowing my brow under the mask, the raven haired man opens his mouth; deciding against it when something else catches his attention.

_What __**now**__?_

"I'm not dead, am I?" Queries a tiny voice from my lap. _Fear,_ I note, _strangely exempt from her voice._

Gazing down at the fluttering –now wide- murky green/brown eyes of Cara, I grin against the burlap.

"Unless you think that this," gesturing to the bare inside of the van, I cannot help but to notice the inquisitive glances coming from my men as I warn them to extend their silence with narrowed eyes, "is Heaven...?"

"Hell more like..." The brunette mutters, before twisting her body, attempting to sit up before a strangled groan moves past her slightly parted, red lips. "Oh, my **head**..." Now sitting and rubbing her temples, Cara peeks meekly across at her captors, finally moving away her hands into her lap and watching me with an air of anxious expectancy.

"I did not burn your apartment if that's what you're worrying about." Chuckling at the instantaneous relaxation of her posture, I avert my eyes from the woman to inspect the reactions of my men.

_**Nothing out of place...**_ Scarecrow notes casually, cackling quietly at the faces of the henchmen when I look at each of them in turn.

Dex's hands, however, do not tremble for a change when it is his turn.

"What's **this**, Dex? Dexter?" Scarecrow coos mockingly, eyes not leaving his as I restore my control, standing to match his height. The henchman shifts uncomfortably, a muscle in his neck spasming for a moment as he continues to return my stare with his dark, ringed eyes.

"Yes, B-Boss?" Dex queries, pausing a swift second to swipe a glance down to the woman shivering near my feet.

Grinning, (_**she's probably **_**cold**_**,**_ Scarecrow grumbles, folding his arms crossly in the relative safety of my mind, _**if you had allowed to me to go through with burning those annoying, oh-so-secure apartments, then we'd all be warmer...**_) I raise a hand, indicating with a finger for three out of four of my men (the forth being the driver, obviously) to come closer as I move towards the back of the van.

"You asked before why I did not order you all to 'actually burn down' Miss Crow's apartment and I... Is there something wrong, Simon?"

The man in question shakes his head vigorously, avoiding looking at his colleagues or me as he suppresses another snort of laughter by pressing his beefy fist into his twitching lips.

"Good." I snarl suddenly annoyed when Scarecrow's presence increases a moment later mentally. "Because if there **is** something wrong with me bringing Miss Crow as a hostage-!"

"A **what**?" Echoes the panicked woman from behind; yet I have no time to appreciate the concept of her **fear** right now. Another noise has my attention for now: Simon's guttural laughter.

_**I have an idea... **_Hums my 'partner', suggesting not so subtly at where we are standing and just how bumpy the 'road' is we are driving on is.

_So do I. _The plan affirms itself in both of our thoughts, ready for action, when I have a new, better idea. _I have enough of the antidote after all... why should I not have some fun?_

Another laugh joins the first and immediately my neck snaps to glare at Harry- one of the newer thugs recently employed to assist me in amassing more money for my (_**our**_) experiments; but his attitude had been wearing away at me since day **one**. The only thing which had kept him alive for so long had been his skill with locks and particularly complicated alarms...

I draw out a canister, dodging the desperate lunges the three men make. The shrill shout from Cara does not even prevent me from paving the way to my old henchmen's demons.

If only I had thought of the driver.

_**Maybe my plan was better, right, Johnny? The doors were right next to you and **_**please**_** tell me that the thought of tossing them out of the back occurred to you? You should really listen to **_**me**_** more often!**_

_**

* * *

**_

Meanwhile the other van following the Boss' van, watch in horror as screams resonate from the swerving, no, crashing vehicle; before ominously settling into a deathly silence as the remaining nondescript van speeds past...

Sirens soon blare at them later: speeding down a one-way street in the Narrows in post-Batman times never comes to much good for criminals now a days...

Especially when the van was carrying vast supplies of **Fear Toxin**. Something the GCPD found quite interesting. Even if the Batman hadn't shown his face, mask, in just over a week now.

_The Scarecrow was loose again and had already gotten hold of more chemicals_? Thought one young police officer, cuffing a suspect a few block away (thank God for quick radio transmissions). _I'll have to be extra careful not to let anything slip past me then!_

That same young cop notices a couple wandering past as his superior –a somewhat paranoid man when it comes to criminals, thanks to a bad experience off duty on a certain boat- reasserts himself that the small-time crook's hands are securely bound behind his back, then straightening himself to check what his rookie is staring at.

Just a couple walking away from the Narrows.

Squinting a little, the elder cop can make out a slight limp in the male's step and the woman seems to be shivering quite a bit... ah, but she's not wearing a coat! In winter! The policeman shakes his head slowly.

"I think they'll be fine, Jackson." He claps a rugged, warm hand over his colleague's shoulder. "Just a tad cold, I'll reckon."

The younger man takes a final look at the couple, watching the way they move around a corner and out of sight.

"Yeah," Jackson says, getting into the patrol car, "they will."

* * *

"Ouch! Crane, you're standing on my foot again!" For about the tenth time too many, Jonathan's foot had just plodded on top of mine, sending tremors of pain to wrack through my thoroughly abused body.

_I'm getting a __**hot**__ bath first when we get back._ I decide mentally, quite unable to care about the intimidating, glacial glares boring into the side of my skull from my living crutch. _Crane or no Crane... this is entirely __**his**__ fault anyway! Getting all of his men killed or arrested, just because of some teasing! Okay, teasing is awful to have happen to you, but... __**killing**__? No more. It's just not worth it._

"Well I am terribly sorry, Cara; but I would not stand on your feet if they were not already in my way!" He snaps, tugging me roughly along by one of loops on my jeans seeing as one of his arms is hooked around my waist for the appearance of normality, whilst still providing support. His other arm hanging casually next to his side, swaying slightly as he walks.

You would never imagine that it is broken.

"How's your wrist doing?" I ask, trying to avoid arguing and genuinely concerned for the madman's health as we continue our staggering trek back to my 'it's just water which smells like gasoline' covered apartment.

I kid you not. Jonathan actually went through all that trouble 'just in case'... despite what Scarecrow had wanted him to do. _Actually that reminds me..._

"Please don't call me Cara, Doctor Crane. I don't think that it's..." my vocabulary stumbles for a moment, trying to find the best word, "suitable anymore."

"My wrist is doing fine, considering that it is **broken** in two places." The man snorts before responding with a haughty tone, cocking one of his fine eyebrows mockingly when I gather the courage to actually look at his face. "And do not even think about telling **me** what to do. I can call you what I please."

"But-!" I object, not getting past the first word when Jonathan, no Crane, cuts over me.

"Just be glad that I chose not to leave you for dead, Cara," he stresses my name, limping along faster as we finally near the apartment's main gate. "Then perhaps we can start anew this time, if that sounds more agreeable? Like old friends, meeting after many years apart, how does that sound?"

_Better than how we were before that's for sure..._

"Then I assume there'll be no more gassing?" I hazard, struggling to fully focus with the prospect of rest and a hot bath so close; yet hyper aware of Crane's careful answer.

"I can promise that I will not gas you again; but..."

"Scarecrow might," unwillingly I shudder against Jonathan even thinking about being around that side of him. _Too alien. Too __**scary**__._

"Exactly." The doctor finishes, the sound of a smile in his voice as we reach the first two locks of the complex.

_Sometimes I think that he actually __**enjoys**__ losing control..._

Rooting deftly (despite the cold) in my pocket for the key needed and draw it out, Crane meanwhile lets go of me to type in the security numbers into the pad before snaking his arm around me once more.

Once inside, the door closes behind us as we make our way across the smooth cobbles of the 'open area', passing small, meticulously maintained gardens before reaching the block where I stay, the far left of the three (and nearest the garages) and entering a new code to get into the empty lobby.

A quick glance proves the lifts to have finally been repaired, and so, we enter the claustrophobic metal box gratefully with aching bodies.

"To floor six, please!" I chime, tapping the correct button with a flourish; albeit shivering when Jonathan's icy eyes glint with a dark sort of amusement at my antics. Especially at the shiver.

"You must be cold," he says in his usual, smooth voice as his thumb brushes absentmindedly (_although I highly doubt that Crane does is such!_) the skin under the thin, brown shirt just above the top of my jeans. "Why don't you have something warm to drink when we get back?"

"I-I was planning on having a bath instead, Jonathan," Stammering my words, I realise my mistake when it is too late: his name. _Bloody brilliant, the __**one**__ attempt I tried to distance myself from him lasted... what? An hour? _

Curiously, he does not rub this in my face, settling instead for a moments rest for his head, leaning his chin atop of my distressed hair.

"Hm, I may have to have one after you. Or a shower perhaps would be better for your bills, if-?"

"Oh! No, no, it's okay, you're a guest anyway and guests-!" Clamping my mouth shut, I take a deep, silent breath and try again, calmer this time when Jonathan moves his head off mine. "You can have either. Both of us have had long enough days as it is..." Sighing as the lift doors open, my thoughts splice when I see my front door.

_Totally... normal. _A breath leaves my saturated lungs, filled with relief.

"You thought that I had been **lying** to you?" States the taller man, sounding annoyed and exceedingly affronted at my well-founded distrust. Feeling his eyes on me, I shake off his hold and limp towards my destination, rummaging around in my pockets for the correct key.

"I told you," the door swings silently open and from behind me I can hear Crane getting closer, "that your home is fine. That I had simply added a non-toxic chemical to water, merely to alter its smell and thus your reaction to seeing your apartment being covered in 'gasoline'... and yet you would rather think me a liar, after all we have been through!"

As if feeling my hesitation to reply, Jonathan shortly caresses the back of my neck, before giving a sharp push with the palm of his hand.

"Let's talk about this inside shall we?" He leers at me when I stop stumbling forwards and glare back at him, pain adding intensity to my swampy, hardening eyes. "And you can stop giving me that look: it's not very attractive, little Crow."

The hairs on the back of my neck prick up and 'that look' disappears from my face in an instant of whole-hearted terror.

_Oh, bugger._

Scarecrow's face lights up.

"That's much better," he purrs quietly, a growl at the edge of his voice as I struggle to find my own.

_Torture chamber, morgue, zombies, roaches, something unseen... _Shaking as the mantra of my fears runs through my head mercilessly, I pull together the more optimistic, the braver parts of my psyche.

"I-I'm okay." I whisper under my breath, closing my eyes and counting to five, I repeat. "I'm okay." Re-opening myself to the world, I ignore the murmuring mocking of the doctor's 'Mr Hyde' as I limp towards the bathroom.

Scarecrow halts his taunting, following closely- like a second shadow he haunts my steps.

"Surely your bath can wait?" He complains in his usual, grating tone. Meanwhile I find myself pinching the bridge of my nose just above my slipping navy frames. _Scarecrow? Whining? Like he's been having a hard time recently... At least he knew that the van would probably __**flip**__ after releasing his toxin on everyone in there! At least he had a mask to stop himself from breathing in any of his bloody fear gas! 'Oh, but at least it wasn't a concentrated dose!' Bloody idiot, it's still unpleasant..._

"I'm cold, sore and more than just a little frustrated right now, Scarecrow; so, no. It can't wait." I snap, exasperated and half expecting a hand to grab me or perhaps a sharp comment; although none comes. _Wow. __**Luck**__..._

"Fine." States Scarecrow, suddenly his voice not... quite... **his**. He starts to move faster than me now, stalking towards the living room/kitchen with an air of irritation. He doesn't even cackle at me when I flinch from his passing form. "I understand. Be sure to rest **after** the bath... we do not want you to drown after all, do we Cara?"

"No," I quip, "it's proven that drowning is not considered healthy!"

"Really?" Crane cocks an eyebrow quizzically.

"Yes." Scowling, I twist the bathroom's shiny brass handle and slip into the pale room, turning on the light as I go.

Jonathan's shoes rap against the floor outside the door as I move slowly to set the bath running and to position a towel, easily reachable for later.

* * *

"Oh, Jonathan, what am I going to do now...?" fingering the pieces of the chess set, I take the damp rag in my other hand and wipe the 'gasoline' from it. "No poisoning poor Crow! I'm going to get so **bored**, Jonny-boy!"

_Then maybe you can find something else to do, _he grumbles, _like all of this cleaning you have suddenly taken upon yourself to do. _He smirks in the recess of my mind. _Trying to impress, are we?_

"Scarecrows don't like burning, funnily enough. I'm getting rid of that **stench**!" Snarling my words, I finishing wiping the chess set, march over to the filled sink and begin wringing out the cloth once more; although this time I imagine the rag to be Johnny's scrawny little neck and...

_Stop it. I said stop it Scarecrow! __**I**__ can see that image too!_

"And that's the point Johns." A wicked smile paves its way onto my face, intensifying when I hear a minute whimper of displeasure from my alter as the imagery continues, including a few... extra features. I lick my lips, enjoying this.

"Are you **scared**, Johnny?" Pause. No answer. A little more to the vision; a stifled cry of...

My eyes close of their own accord, hands tightening around the wet rag.

"Little, scared, cowardly, skinny as a handrail Jonathan Crane doesn't want to play?"

Another whimper, then a whisper of strength: a threat is all I get.

_**Can't be having that: he needs to answer me properly.**_

"Then how about I-?"

The opening and closing of a door makes me pause for a moment. The patter of feet holds me rapt for a few seconds, before the footfall stops when –as I would guess- little Crow wanders into her thickly carpeted room.

Absentmindedly I wonder if she'll have another nightmare tonight.

_**I bet she will, maybe I should go see if...**_

Johnny takes this chance to overtake **my** body.

_**It's my turn for control now, Johnny, you selfish bastard!**_

My shoulder feel stiff again as he alters his posture back to the 'norm', muttering something about pills for his headache.

"... headache being you, you irksome bag of straw." Johns slips on his glasses, adjusting them and running a hand through his wavy hair before resuming. "It's been a long time since you attacked me last. Is it because you are bored? Or," he raises a dark eyebrow, "because want something I have, dear old friend?" Johnny finished with a twisted grin on his features.

_**Well, **_I start in mock contemplation, stroking my chin thoughtfully; _**I wouldn't really consider my little Crow as **_**yours**_**.**_

"What?" He splutters, much to my satisfaction. "I-I-!" A blotchy blush bubbles against his skin. "I wasn't referring to Cara, I was talking about-!"

Chuckling, I wait for Johns to finish his shambling lie, before growing bored and cutting in over him.

_**You're forgetting who you're talking to Johnny- I'm a part of you, like it or not. You can't lie to **_**me**_**.**_

"Hm..." Is all the reply I get, watching my other persona take the damp rag to finish what I'd started, my vision fades away willingly.

As if I'd be so bored as to watch Johnny clean.

* * *

"That's better," wrapping the towel around my head, I wander towards the sink in the corner of my bedroom and look in the mirror just above it.

A pale, tired face stares back at me. The emotion in her eyes, haunted, with the look of the lost about her from the way her shoulders are held, low and somewhat submissive.

I raise a hand to the reflection's, pressing my palm against hers and wishing that we could swap places; even for moment.

The reflection closes her eyes just as I do.


End file.
